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I 


[No. 33.] 


Price 25 Cents. 


led Monthly. 


Entered at the Post Office at New York at Second Class Rates.— June 27.' 1891. 


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Copj'i-ighted by George Muni’o, 1891.— By Subscription, $3.00 per Annum. 

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LOVE AT SARATOGA 


OR, 

MARRIED IN HASTE. 


BY 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. 

1 1 


■■ 


jUN 00 189! 

1 S' 




NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewatkr Street. 




■p'/- ^ ' 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18T9, by 
GEORGE MUNRO, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 


\ 


I-ove at Saratoga. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


CHAPTER I. 

PRETTY DORA. 

Roses in a cracked pitcher on the stained pine bureau; 
roses in a pink drift on the dilapidated chair beside it; half- 
open buds on the floor, and sprays of leaves lying around every" 
where — and Dora Beck, standing before the little six-inch 
square of looking-glass with the royal blossoms twisted in her 
golden tresses, and a dress of pale-pink organdy, all puffs and 
flutings and edges of Valenciennes lace, trailing in clear folds 
over the floor, was the fairest rose of them all. 

Fair with a beauty which would have inspired an artist with 
dreams of Cleopatra, or Venus, or Helen of Troy; a beauty hir 
out of, and beyond the ordinary type. For Theodora Beck 
was small and slight, with pale-yellow hair full of golden 
gleams, and a complexion as delicate as the inside of an apple 
blossom, a full, scarlet mouth, and roguish dimples in either 
cheek, while her eyes, large and dark, of the deepest and most 
liquid ^hade of hazel brown, gave a most winning expression 
to the fair, childish face. And the rosy crimson of excitement 
had risen into her face, as she stood there, pulling out a rose- 
bud here, fastening in a full-blown flower there, and turning 
this way and that, to get a glimpse, in the wretched little mir- 
ror, of her pretty figure. 

“How do 1 look?’^ said Dora, half aloud. “Would any 
one mistake me for a lady? Oh, if I could only promenade 
up and down those long piazzas, to the music of the band, 
and drink the spring water, with a lace parasol and a lovely 
French hat, like Miss Ravenel! If I could only — 

But in the midst of Dorans soliloquy, the bedroom door 
burst open, and a tall, raw-boned woman of some two- or 
three-and-thirty bounced into the room like a human tornado; 
a woman dressed in faded calico, with a knot of tow-colored 
hair, fastened by a most uncompromising horn comb, on the 
very top of her head; pale-blue eyes, and a Roman nose. And 


6 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Dora Beck turned scarldfc, and shrunk away out of the very 
glow of the sunset, as if she would have liked to vanish through 
the cr^ck of the floor! 

“ Why, Theodora l^eckT^ screamed Miss Joanna, her elder 
sister — elder- by sixteen years, and sourer by many degrees of 
acidity — “ what are you doing? All stuck ui^with flowers like 
a crazy creature, and, as I live and bi'eathe, with Mrs. Stacy’s 
pink organdy dress on, as 1 spent two hours in ironing this 
very morning?” 

“ I’m not hurting it, Joanna,” faltered Dora, ready to cry 
with niortification and annoyance. “ 1 haven’t crumpled it 
the least bit in the world. 1 only wanted to see how I should 
look in it!” 

“And a pretty figure you make,” said Joanna, irately. 
“It ain’t for the likes of you to go gallivantin’ around in 
'other-folks’ finery. Take it off this minute, and never let me 
see you cut up such a caper again! Do you hear? Take it 
off!’’ 

Coloring deeply, and with a confused sense of angry shame; 
Theodora obeyed, under the falcon eye of her elder sister, and 
appeared once more in the sprigged calico dress of antique 
pattern and scanty cut which formed her ordinary costume. 

And now theu, come down-stairs,” said Joanna, authori- 
tatively, “ and help with Miss Marcel’s laces, or 1 sha’n’t get 
’em done to-night!” 

“ I’m tired of ironing,” said Dora, with an impatient shrug 
of the shoulders. “ I’ve been ironing all the afternoon, and 
my arms ache.” 

“ I c^n’t help that,” retorted Joanna. “ I’m tired too— 
but them laces have got to be done up to-night. And you 
may as well be working to earn your bread as bedizening 
yourself like a j)lay actress.” 

And so, unwillingly enough, pretty Dora followed her sister 
down the narrow, wooden staircase inlio a low-ceiled room, all 
irradiated by the western glory of the setting sun, where there 
was an ironing-table, two or three clothes-horses well laden 
with newly laundried dresses, ruffled skirts and laces, and a 
cooking-stove, over which crouched a very old man in a black 
cloth skull-cap and a faded dressing-gown, cowering over the 
red coals as if he was half frozen, although any thermometer 
would have marked the atmosphere of the rooni at ninety. 

“My pipe, Joanna!” croaked he, looking vaguely around 
him; “ my pipe! I’ve mislaid it somewhe»-e— and nobody will 
look for it. Nobody ever does look for my things.” 

“ It’s right there in the ashes, grandfather, where you 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


7 


dropped ifc yourself/^ said Joanna, stooping to recover the 
article in question, and throwing it carelessly into his lap. 

“ Here's your pink cambric polonaise, Dora— what have 
you been doing it up for? It wasn't half soiled enough for 
the wash." 

“It was all crumpled," retorted Dora, who was trying an 
iron by holding it at an alarmingly close proximity to her 
dimpled cheek. “ And I want to wear it to-morrow." 

Joanna looked quickly up from the white peignoir she was 
pulling into shape. 

“ To wear where?" demanded she, tartly. 

“ To the races, of course," said Dora, ironing desperately 
away, and never venturing to look up, although she felt the 
stern scrutiny with which her elder sister was regarding her. 

“ Then you may as well put it away at once," said Joanna, 
“ for you ain't a-going!" 

“ 1 am, too!" retorted Dora, with a toss of the yellow 
braids, all threaded with gold, and an ominous sparkling of 
the deep-brown eyes. 

Joanna looked sharply at her. “Has Reuben Hallo well 
asked you to go?" said she, somewhat more gently. 

“ No, he hasn't!" responded Dora. “And if ho had, I 
wouldn't go with him— a great lumbering fellow, with cow- 
hide boots, and a hat that looks as if it had come out of the 
Ark!" 

“ A deal too good for you," asserted Joanna. “ And 
1 only wonder what he can find to fancy in yon. But 1 see 
how it is — you’re all took up with that showy young Gates, 
down at the tannery." 

Dora laughed. “ It's the other way, Joanna," smiled she. 
“ He's all taken up with me!^^ 

“ I dare say," said the elder sister, incredulously, “ But 1 
guess me and grandfather will have something to say to that." 
^ “ I'm sixteen," said Dora, flushing with quick anger; 
“ and I won't be dictated to who I shall go with and who I 
sha'n't. " 

“ You're only a child," retorted Joanna, “ and you haven't 
neither sense nor judgment^no, nor you never will have. If 
it was Reuben Hallowell that was going to take you, now — " 

“ But it ain’t!" flashed out Dora; “ and it won't be!" 

“ V^ery well," said Joanna, with a grim screwing up of her 
thin lips. “Then you may make up your mind to stay at 
home." 

“ I won't bo ordered by you," cried Dora, with quivering 


8 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


lips and eyes luminous with unshed tears; “ Til do as 1 
please.'’^ 

Joanna Beck turned sharply around. 

“ Grandfather,’' said she, “ I wish you’d interfere. I can 
do nothing at all with this headstrong child. Grandfather, I 
say!” 

The old man, who had been sitting immovable before the 
fire, like a statue of discolored wax, suddenly roused himself 
from his lethargy at the call, and looked around with dim 
blue eyes. 

“ Eh?” said he. “ Dolly? is it Dolly again?” 

‘‘Yes, it’s Dolly,” said tioanna, sharply; “ and she’s set on 
going to the Saratoga races with that good-for-nothing, gam- 
bling fellow, George Gates — and I tell her she sha’n’t.” 

“Of course she sha’n’t,” piped out the old man. “Do 
you hear, Dolly? It ain’t no place for you.” 

“ }yUy isn’t it a place for me?” demanded Dora, trembling 
all over with excitement and agitation. “ The fine ladies 
from the Clarendon and Congress Hall are all going in their 
barouches and landaus; Miss Eavenel has ordered a dress from 
New York on purpose for the races.” 

“ You ain’t Miss Ravfenel,” satirically responded her sister, 
“ and you haven’t any landaus and open barouches to go in.” 

“ Is that a reason I should be shut out, for ever and ever, 
from any sort of enjoyment?” cried Dora, passionately. 

“ Eolly and nonsense,” said Joanna; “you’re not going 
one step. Grandfather says so — and 1 say so, and there is an 
end of the matter. My goodness me!” with a sudden start 
and a rising inflection of the voice, “ what are you about? 
You’re scorching Miss Lacey’s Swiss muslin to a cinder.” 

But Dora Beck was in no humor to listen to any more lect- 
uring. Her cheeks were burning, her lips aquiver; the large, 
diamond-bright tears hung on her long, dark lashes, while her 
cheri^ lips were pressed close together. She flung the iron 
one way, the scorched muslin skirt another, and darted out of 
the room like a hunted wild creature. 

“ Eh?” said the old man, again staring vacantly around the 
room. “Is it Dolly again? Seems to me that girl is always 
tormenting us. Y^ou’d better have taken my advice, Joanna, 
and put her out to service.” 

“ AVho’d have her? a chit of a thing like that!” retorted 
the elder sister, who was surveying the scorched muslin with 
a lugubrious countenance. “ Oh, dear, dear, I don’t know 
what’ll ever take this spot out — and Miss Lacey is so i^articu- 
lar, too! But one thing I’ll put down my foot to — I loonH 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


9 


have her tearing around the country with the like of George 
Gates. 

“ No, no, no!^^ uttered the old man, feebly rubbing his 
hands as he bent closer over the fire. “ She must go out to 
service, Joanna — to service!’’ 

Meanwhile pretty Dora herself had rushed out of the back 
door, and down a wide path, embowered with grape-vines, to 
a sheltered nook at the back of the garden, where a gnarled 
old pear-tree hung its golden drops of summer’s fruitage over 
a mass of perpendicular rocks, and the grass grew tall and 
rank in the waving shadows, while, at the left, a cold stream 
trickled down; drop by drop, into a shallow stone basin, hol- 
lowed out by the perpetual action of the water into a natural 
cup. 

The “ Great Rock,’’ as it was palled, had been Dora Beck’s 
haven of refuge from the time she could remember. She had 
cried over “Alonzo and Melissa” there — she had perused 
“ Charlotte Temple ” with rapt interest under the shadow of 
the blossoming pear boughs — she had crept away thither to 
be out of the reach of her grandfather’s exactions and Joan- 
na’s shrill tongue, and there, with her forehead pressed against 
the cool mossy rock, and the deep shade folding her around 
like a mantle, she had dreamed her first vague impossible 
dreams of the Future, out of which a Prince Charming should 
some time ride, with diamond -pointed spear and glittering 
crown upon his head. 

Theodora Beck had never known either father or mother. 
Her earliest remembrance had been of her stern old grand- 
father, who seemed to regard little girls as a nuisance, and 
dolls as an outrageous piece of folly, even when constructed 
of the cheap material, yclept corncobs, and dressed in the 
refuse of the rag bag — and the tyrannical elder sister, whose 
whole object in life seemed to be to grind a certain amount 
of work out of all who came within her relentless orbit. 
Naturally enough, she had grown up defiant and rebellious, 
impatient of the curb, and anxious to escape from the un- 
congenial atmosphere. She had seen her golden hair and 
deep wine-brown eyes in the distorted looking-glass, and 
awakened, all of a sudden, to the consciousness that she was 
beautiful. And in that potent spell of beauty she believed 
that she held the magic key which was to unlock to her the 
gates of a newer and brighter life. 

She had had her dreams, this pretty sixteen-year-old Dora, 
even while Joanna fancied her absorbed in the labors of the 
fluting-iron or the interminable lengths of machine stitching; 


10 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


she had asked herself in secret what Dora was like, and won- 
dered with shy, secret blushes on her cheek, if ever a true 
lover would bow at her feet! 

“ Not a rough, hard-handed farmer like Reuben Hallowell,^' 
she had said to herself, with a grimace, “ but a gentleman. I 
will marry no one but a gentleman, who can give me a set of 
diamonds, and a basket phaeton, with cream-colored ponies.'’^ 

In one of her battered school histories there was a picture 
of Mary Queen of Scots, with the tri-cornered coif over her 
pure pale face, and strings of pearls around her neck — and 
many a night after she had gone up to her room, Dora would 
sit studying the features of the world’s enchantress, and com- 
paring them with her own, in a sort of innocent, unconscious 
egotism. 

“lam as pretty as she was,” she would whisper, smilingly 
to herself. “ And I won’t marry Reuben Hallowell, and bury 
myself alive in a wretched country hole like this.” 

And now she felt, poor, pretty little dreamer, as if Miss 
Joanna’s rude iconocdastic hand were pulling her down from 
the first round of the ladder of success — as if the dim gray 
curtain of her every-day life were momentarily lifted, only to 
torture her vision with a momentary glimpse of a i^ossible fut- 
ure, and then to fall again in cruel eclipse. 

For the Saratoga races were all the fashion this summer. 
J,1ie belles of the great hotels were devising costumes for the 
day; the grand stand was to be wreathed in flowers and hung 
with silken bunting, a fit frame for fair faces and Parisian 
toilets; the programmes were to be printed on white satin in 
letters of gold, and all the gay world of Saratoga was to be on 
the qui vive. And little Dora Beck was determined that she, 
too, would drink her cup of happiness from the general fount- 
ain of excitement and delight. 

“ I will go!” she cried aloud to the drooping pear boughs 
and trickling thread-like stream, as if they were human and 
could sympathize in her tribulations. “ And I will go with 
George Gates, because lie has anew phaeton with silver-plated 
harness. They may say what they like, but they shall not 
keep me at home. I’ll wear my pink iiolonaise and the string 
of jet beads and go like a lady. And grandfather and Joanna 
may say what they please!” 

And so, creeping along behind clustering currant bushes, 
all hung with crimson fringes of glittering fruit, and thickets 
of gorgeous pink and white hollyhocks down to the garden 
wall, Dora made her way back to her own room, where the 
roses still lay in withering heaps, and took out the jiasteboard 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 11 

box, which was her nearest approach to a desk, to write a 
summons to the valiant and chivalric Mr. George Gates. 

“ How shall 1 write it?"' said Dora to herself, sitting tailor 
fashion in front of the low window-seat 'on which she had 
spread out her paper to catch the last fading rays of sunset, 
with a new steel pen and a bottle of violet ink which she had 
bought of an itinerant peddler. “ And what shall 1 say? For 
1 don^t want it to be one bit like a love letter. -And George 
Gates is one of the sort that if you give him an inch he^ll take 
an ell.^^ 

And so Dora contracted her pretty brows and twisted up her 
red rosebud of a mouth, and frowned at the sunset, and nib- 
bled the end of her pen in vain, longing for something like an 
inspiration. 

Half an hour later Miss Joanna Beck, on her way to the 
well for a pail of water, met little Moses Griffin, a neighbor^'s 
child, running around the corner of the house, with something 
white in his hand. 

“Eh!” said Joanna, who was suspicious by nature, and 
would have made an excellent New York detective. “ Where 
are you running to, Moses? And what have you got there?” 

Little Moses looked this way and that in a sort of breathless 
panic, but there was no escape. The stone wall was too high 
to be climbed, and Miss Joanna^s Amazonian form filled up 
the garden gate beyond all hopes of running the blockade in 
that direction. So he only screwed the knuckles of his left 
hand into his eyes and burst into a howl. 

“ IFs — it’s a letter,” said he. 

“ Where did you get it?” sternly demanded Joanna. 

“ Miss Dora give it to me.” 

“ Who’s it for?” 

“ Young Mr. Gates, down at the tannery,” unwillingly 
confessed little Moses. 

“Just give it to me !” said Miss Joanna. “ I’ll make it all 
right.” 

And before little Moses could decide whether or not it was 
expedient for him to obey this order, she had twitched it out 
of his hand. 

The boy disappeared in the twilight like a gnome of evil, 
whimpering as he went, and Miss Joanna, with a grim smile 
upon her face, tore the letter into small bits and flung them 
behind an ancient barberry bush which flourished close to the 
gate. 

“ I’ll have no underhand correspondence here!’’ ^id she. 

And unconscious little Dora, sitting in the window-seat with 


12 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


her chill in her hands and her wonderful deep-brown eyes 
fixed dreamily on the silver star of the evening, which was 
just beginning to glimmer through the opal dark, was saying 
to herself, with a half smile: 

“ Who knows? Perhaps to-morrow will be a turning point 
in my life.'’^ 

There are seasons when the mantle of prophecy seems to 
fall upon us like an unseen veil. There are times in which 
our mental vision grows clearer, and the film between us and 
the future is temporarily lifted. But our blunt perceptions 
are all unconscious of the mystic mood, and alas! the clouds 
settle down once more, deeper and darker than ever. 

So it was with poor Theodora Beck, the solitary human 
flower who had grown up and blossomed in the shadow of the 
dreary old farm-house on the Saratoga Eoad, where the stiff 
Lombardy poplars rustled in the night wind, and the pine 
woods beyond answered with low ^oliaji whispers. And as 
the moments crept on, each one brought nearer the morrow 
that was freighted with the destiny of her own young life. 

The night air had grown strangely damp; the silver shining 
of the stars seemed to strike a deadly chill to her heart; she 
rose up with a little shiver. 

“ Surely 1 am not doing anything wrong?^'’ she questioned 
herself. What nonsense! As if it could be wrong to slip 
away from grandfather and Joanna for one day — just one day 
of merrymaking and happiness. I am only sixteen, and 1 
have never been anywhere. No,^’ very decidedly, as she took 
out the confining hair-pin and let the cascade of golden hair 
float freely down her back, “ it can^t be wrong!'’ 


CHAPTEK II. 

THE BIRD IS FLOWN. 

The robins were whistling the first melodious notes that 
seem to pierce the rose and gold of a summer dawn like undu- 
lating threads of silver; the stars had hardly yet faded out of 
the pearly gray horizon, when Dora Beck rose noiselessly, and 
dressed herself in the pink cambric dress and polonaise, with 
the string of jet beads around her neck and a cluster of sweet 
white roses in her hair — the golden hair that crowned her fair 
girlish head like a glory. And when she had tied on a simple 
split-straw hat of her own trimming, she crept up into the old 
garret a^ve, and, apening a huge and ancient chest of paint- 
ed wood, took out a red camlet cloak with a quaint folding 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


13 


hood which had belonged to her dead grandmother, and 
wrapped it over her like a domino, so that only her bright 
eyes were fairly visible — eyes that danced and sparkled like 
liquid diamonds. 

“ Joanna herself would scarcely recognize me in such a dis- 
guise as this/^ said she to herself, mischievously smiling, as 
she glided softly down the stairs, holding her very breath as 
she crept past Joanna^’s threshold, and stole out of the back 
door where the tall tiger lilies were nodding their tlirbaned 
heads in the crimson flood of sunrise, and the dew sparkled on 
leaf and twig, in the mysterious sp^ll that broods over the 
birth of every new day. Springing as lightly over the old 
stone wall at the back of the garden as if she were a squirrel, 
she hurried along over green pasture-flelds where the peaceful 
ruminants lifted their heads to gaze at her 'as she passed by, 
and through green patches of pine woods where the fragrant 
needles rustled under her feet and crows called hoarsely to one 
another from the dizzy crests of the trees overhead — hurried 
with a strange sense of exultant delight, as if she had left the 
fetters of her old life behind and begun a new- and rapturous 
existence, half gypsy, half enchanted princess. And through 
it all there ran the disturbed and guilty sense of having vio- 
lated some implied law of the Medes and Persians in the old 
farm-house — the sense that she had become a rebel, and must, 
sooner or later, be dragg;^ed back to the judgment-seat, there 
to receive sentence. 

“ What will Joanna say,^' she kept on asking herself, 
“ when she finds out that I am gone?^^ 

At a rustic stile just at the entrance to some woods, about 
three miles away from the Beck farm-house, she paused, rosy 
and h|^thless, to await the appearance of the knight of the 
tan-^^ with his new pheaton and silver-decked harness. 

“ It must be seven o^clock,^^ she thought, looking up at the 
sun, which was her only chronometer. “ Seven o^clock and 
more. And 1 told him to be here at half past six.'’" 

But the maple leaves rustled overhead, and the birds sung 
in the tangled boughs, and the shadows crept further and fur- 
ther along the mossy turf, and still, like Mariana's hero in the 
mo^ated grange, “ he came not" 

Pretty Dora was not accustomed to this sort of treatment 
from her rustic cavaliers. The indignant crimson rose to her 
cheek as she looked vainly up and down the curves of the 
dusty road beyond; the wine-brown eyes blazed bodingly. 

“ I won't be played with!" said she to herself. “ I'll stay 


14 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


here no longer. Til walk on, and when he overtakes me, I'll 
take no notice of him.^'’ 

And so, with impetuous footstep and heart beating with 
suppressed resentment, Theodora Beck hurried out of the shel- 
tering woods, and began her weary walk over the dusty high- 
road which was now beginning to be dotted with equipages of 
various styles, traveling shdws destined to be set up just out- 
side the boundaries of the race grounds, and groups of pedes- 
trians. But Dora cared little for this; she had been brought 
up with none of the shrinking diffidence whidi characterizes 
the dainty beauties of the aristocratic drawing-room, and more- 
over, the red camlet mantle which covered her dress and fig- 
ure, concealed her girlish grace and beauty, and gave her an 
aspect quite foreign to her real personality, while it effectually 
shielded her from any impertinent notice. And as she walked 
along, she glanced backward ever and anon, to see if there 
were any trace of the recreant cavalier who was so unaccount- 
ably behind time. 

In the meautime, however, a very spirited little drama was 
being enacted at the dismal old farm-house with the row of 
Lombardy poplars in front, and the grove of whispering june- 
trees in the rear. 

Miss Joanna Beck had come down-stairs as usual, after as- 
sisting to dress the old grandfather, who grew less and less 
capable every day of heljfing himself, and had prepared the 
breakfast of salt mackerel, three boiled eggs, and heavy home- 
made bread, befol’e it occurred to her that her young sister 
was more than ordinarily late. But at length, glancing up at 
the clock, whose face was half veiled in a mist of green aspara- 
gus bouglis, placed there to attract the flies away from the rest 
of the room, she uttered, sharply: 

“ A quarter to seven— and Dora not down yet! What docs 
ail that child? 1 think she grows lazier every day.^^ 

The old man, who had been intent on toasting a slice of 
bread for his own especial consummation, looked feebly around 
at the shrill tones of his elder granddaughter's voice. 

“ Dolly ?^' said he. “ Is it Dolly again? Dolly always wros 
idle. Call her, Joanna; call her. I canT be kept waiting 
all day for my breakfast, and the toast browned just the right 
color. 

Joanna stepm^ed briskly to the foot of the stairs, and called 
once, twice, three times, without receiving an answer. Then 
she hurried up the stairs, her stiffly starched calico dress 
rustling ominously as she went, and burst the door open with 
small ceremony, crying out as she did so: 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


15 


‘‘ Theodora Beck, what are you about? BouT you know it 
is ’most seven o’clock, and—”* But she stopped short on per- 
ceiving that Dora was not there. “ My — goodness — me!” 
said she, with wide-open mouth and eyes, “ where is the 
child?” And then, as a sudden flood of comprehension seemed 
to sweep across her brain, she added, in a sort of shrill shriek: 
“ Gone to Saratoga races. I’ll be bound, the good-for-nothing, 
self-willed, disobedient little hussy! Gone to Saratoga races — 
and in the very face and eyes of all I said to her!” 

But as she stood there, rooted to the floor in surprise and 
dismay, the feeble voice of the old grandfather called up to 
her from below: 

“ Joanna, Joanna! tell Dolly to put on her best frock and 
make haste down. Here’s Reuben Ilallowell come with a 
one-horse buggy to take her to the races.” 

Miss Joanna glanced distractedly out of the window, and 
sure enough, under the scant shadow of the Lombardy poplars 
stood the old white horse of the Hallowell establishment, with 
a red hollyhock in his head-stall, harness neatly blacked, and 
the old-fashioned buggy fitted up with new cloth cushions and 
a fresh piece of carpet on the floor. 

“ Well, I never!” said Joanna, and she hurried down in sore 
perplexity. 

Reuben Hallowell, a sturdy young farmer, stood by the 
door, looking exceedingly ill at ease in his Sunday clothes, 
with a hat too large for him, gloves correspondingly small, 
and a gigantic cabbage rose in his button-hole. He was tall 
and stalwart, with honest light-blue eyes, hair of the very 
lightest tint of flax, and a broad, sunburnt face, beaming 
with good humor. 

“ Good-morning, Miss Joanna,” said ho, rather awkwardly, 
as he shook hands with the eldest Miss Beck. “ I’m sorry I 
can’t take you too, but the buggy won’t hold but two — so if 
Dora will get her things on — ” 

“ Her things, indeed,” said Joanna, forgetting all etiquette 
in the excitement of the minute. ” She’s gone!” 

“ Gone!” echoed Reuben Hallowell, staring with all his 
eyes. 

“ Gone!” shrieked the old man, dropping his slice of brown 
toast into the fire. 

“ Yes, gone!” said Joanna, emphatically. “ And one 
thing’s certain-— she sha’n’t come back to this house.” 

“ Don’t say that. Miss Joanna, don’t say that,” cried good- 
natured Reuben. “ Remember, she’s only a young thing and 


16 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


likes her own way, as who don’t? But sure, she’s never gone 
. alone 

“ 1 don’t know whether she has or not,” said Joanna, half 
choked with vexation. “And I don’t care; the willful, 
feather-headed little chit!- She may go to destruction her own 
way for all of me. ” 

“ Where do you suppose she’s gone?” demanded Beuben, 
chewing blankly at a straw. 

“ To the races, of course,” snapped Joanna. “ Where else 
should she go? And with that good-for-nothing Gates fellow. ” 

Eeuben’s countenance fell. 

“ Oh, Miss Joanna!” said he, piteously, “ you don’t really 
think that I” 

“ Yes, I do,” said Joanna, inexorably. 

“ Miss Joanna, look here,” said thd honest swain, after 
cracking all his ten thumbs nervously in succession and star- 
ing hard at a print of “The Battle of Bunker Hill ” on the 
opposite wall, “ it ain’t fit that a pretty young creeter like her 
should be at them gay races, either with George Gates or with- 
out, is it, now?” 

“ Of course it ain’t,” said Joanna, angrily. 

“ Certainly not,” chimed in the old grandfather, who was 
trying to scrape off the charred crust of his beloved piece of 
toast, which he had rescued from the fiery coals with the 
kitchen tongs. 

“ Then,” said Reuben Hallowell, “ let’s go and find her, 
you and me.” 

“Me!” said Joanna, in surprise. 

“ Yes, you,” nodded the farmer. “If I should go after 
her ten to one she wouldn’t come with me. YotCve got some 
authority over her.” 

“Not much,” retorted Joanna Beck, biting her lip. “ If 
I but then there ain’t no use talking about it. May be 
you’re right, Reuben Hallowell. I’ll just stop to give gran’- 
ther his breakfast, and take a bite and a sup myself, and then 
I’ll get my things on. You’ll take a cup of coffee, Reuben, 
won’t you?” 

The young man made a disclaiming gesture. “ I couldn’t 
eat a morsel,” said he. “ Nor yet tlrink a drop— it would 
choke me, I’m that fretted and worried about Dora.” 

“ She ain’t worth fretting for,” said Joanna, grimly. 

“ 1 think she is,” said Reuben, cheerfully. “ So I’ll go 
out and keep the flies off old Bonny; they’re dreadful trouble- 
some this time of year. And you won’t keep me waiting 
longer than you can help, will you. Miss Joanna?” he added. 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


17 


wistfully. “ For little Dora, one oughtn^t to be hard on her; 
she is so young, and so pretty, you know, and she understands 
so little about the ways of the world. 

“ Humph!'’’ snorted Joanna, as she poured out her grand- 
father’s first cup of weak coffee. “ She knows more than 
you’ve any idea of, I guess. But you needn’t fret yourself, 
Keuben Hallowell, I’ll not keep you long.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SARATOGA RACES. 

The Saratoga Race Ground was like the glitter of a magni- 
fied kaleidoscope on that golden summer day, as the sun 
climbed slowly to the zenith. The grand stand was full of 
ladies, an aristocratic, perfumed crowd, whose plumes and 
scarfs, and rainbow dresses fluttered in the soft wind, while 
their diamonds flashed back the rays of the intense sunshine. 
Below, on the level slopes of wide green turf, there was a con- 
fused crowd of tossing horses’ heads, shining wheels, and dec- 
orated hammer-cloths, while the swaying mass of human faces 
gathered around the whita ropes that separated the race- 
course from the other portion of the grounds would have fur- 
nished an excellent study for the physiognomist. While, fur- 
ther away, the swarm of parasites who fasten upon any such 
occasion for their own profits and peculation, were plying a 
brisk and busy trade — Punch and Judy shows, learned dogs, 
dancing bears, three card monte players, venders of stale cakes, 
bruised oranges, and dusty peanuts, and leaning against the 
poles which supported a mildewed canvaa tent, within which 
a “fat lady ” received admiring visitors at ten cents a head, 
stood our poor little Dora, flushed and wearied, and gazing 
listlessly at the throng as they ebbed and flowed with almost 
endless motion, now rushing by in a frantic mass, as the ring- 
ing of the bell announced the start of some popular equine 
favorite, now sauntering slowly back when the breathless ex- 
citement of the race was over, and a brief interval of quiet 
ensued. Close behind her a set of Scotch bag-pipes kept up 
an endless drone — ^at the left> a party of performing monkeys 
were gathering a harvest of pennies from the eager spectators 
—and, weary as she was, Dora laughed aloud in child-like glee 
at the pranks of these odd little parodies on humanity, with,, 
their gray withered faces and curly tails protruding from be- 
neath gaudy scarlet jackets. And then she remembered how 
tired she was, and how hungry, and the tears followed close 
on the sparkle of laughter in her eyes — a very April shower. 


18 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“Are these the races?’^ said Dora to herself. “ Nothing 
but dust and noise, and burning sunshine, and the people 
crowding one another so dreadfully. Oh, I am sorry I came. 
And 1 wish 1 was at home once more ironing dresses with Jo- 
anna, and— 1^11 never speak to George Gates again as long as 
I live. 

For Dora was tired, and footsore, and hungry, and a little 
disposed to be frightened in the rush and confusion of the 
crowd, no one of whom seemed to notice the pretty pink polo- 
naise, nor the straw hat trimmed with loops of white ribbon 
and a real crushed French rose. Except one or two whose 
stare had been so insolent that Dora had retreated behind the 
hood of the red camlet cloak in a sort of trembling panic, and 
was glad to lose herself in th*e stream of people rushing toward 
the grand stand. She could not get near enough to catch a 
glimpse of the lovely satin-coated horses with their rosetted 
heads and gayly dressed riders — she could not even distinctly 
discern the glories of the ladies seated in glittering tiers, like 
a terraced rose-garden, in the grand stand itself— and alto- 
gether, as she stood there, worn and weary, and ready to cry, 
she could not but confess to herself that her day of happiness 
had been a stupendous failure. 

And here she was, with blistered feet and aching head, seven 
good miles away from home, and without a penny in her 
pocket. 

“ If I could only ride part of the way in Bill Fenwood^s 
omnibus, that is running every hour between the village and 
the race grounds,” thought Dora. “ It would take me as far 
as the old sign -post, and I could easily walk the rest of the 
distance. But he charges twenty-five cents, and I have no 
money. 

As she stood there trying to summon up sufficient resolu- 
tion to start off on the sultry homeward walk, a tall, hand- 
some ^gentleman, in a light dove-colored suit, with diamonds 
sparkling in his linen, and a broad-brimmed Panama hat shad- 
ing his straight, clearly outlined features, paused close to her, 
with a shorter, slighter man, in white linen, at his side. 

“ You’ll go back for the last heat, Branchley?” said the 
latter, eagerly consulting his watch. “It will* come oil iii 
ten minutes now.” 

“Not I!” carelessly retorted the tall stranger. “If this 
is a specimen of your American race-courses. I’ve seen 
enough of the article. You can’t expect a man who has been 
at Goodwood and Epsom to go into ecstasies over a little 
third-rate affair like this.” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


19 


The slighter of the two looked rather annoyed. “ Of 
course/^ said he, “ you canT suppose that this is equal to 
Jerome Park, or — 

Don't let me detain you," said the hero of the gracefully 
droojDing Panama hat. “ Pll wait here for your return, and 
console myself with a cigar in the meanwhile. Or stay," with 
a smile, as his eye fell on the slight form and exquisitely lovely 
face that were only partially hidden behind the red camlet 
cloak, “ I'll have my future unrolled by the mystic hand of 
the Saratoga sibyl. ‘ 11 faut s^cimiiser ' — and what can be a 
more appropriate way of passing the time in such a place as 
this?" 

“ Nonsense!" cried out the other. 

“You see- our ideas differ on this, as on other subjects," 
said the man who had been addressed as “ Branchley. " “ Go 
to your betting-book; I'll stay here and study my destiny. 
Pretty one," turning with a soi t of chivalrous courtesy to the 
half-frightened girl, “ will you tell my fortune?" 

The color rose' in a soft carmine tide to Theodora's cheek. 
Her first idea had been to vanish out of sig^ht in the mazes of 
the crowd; but in a second her spirit of mischief and instinct 
of masquerade came to her rescue. And besides, it occurred 
to her mind that this was not a bad way of earning a little 
money to enable her to ride home in the coveted omnibus. 

“ Yes," said she, “ 1 will tell your fortune. Give ihe your 
hand." 

He held it out with an amused smile, which altered into an 
expression of positive surprise, as she flung back the red cloak, 
whose folds fettered her motion. 

“ By Jove!" he muttered to himself, “ what a beauty 
she is!" 

Nor was the exclamation uncalled for; for, truly, as Dora 
Beck stood there, with golden hair, dark glittering eyes, and 
complexion heightened into absolute brilliance, she was as 
beautiful as one of Salvator Posa's ideal dreams. 

For a moment or two she scrutinized the lines on the large 
white hand with apparent attention; then she lifted the long- 
lashed eyes shyly to his face. 

“ It will be a good fortune," said she. “ Ilaj^py love— a 
bonny sweetheart — and a wedding-ring." 

He drew a gold piece from his pocket, with a smile; she re- 
coiled a step or two. 

“ I don't take gold," said he. “Only silver." 

“ You are the strangest fortune-teller I ever saw in my life," 
said he. “ A future like that deserves the gleam of red gold." 


20 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Only silver/^ she repeated, resolutely. 

“ Here it is, then;^^ and he exchanged the gold piece for 
one of silver, which Dora gravely dropped into a little chate- 
lain bag of black silk, embroidered with black bugles, which 
hung at her side. ‘‘ But you mustn’t run away from me be- 
fore you have told me more about this bonny sweetheart of 
mine. Is she anything like you 

Dora laughed with the innocent confidence of a child. 

“ I shall not tell you,” said she. “ Your fortune will come 
to you fast enough. And — ” 

“ Why, The-o-^Zo-ra! I am surprised at you!” 

And glancing up with a start, pretty Dora found herself 
looking direct into the catty-green eyes of Miss Joanna herself, 
glaring like any basilisk, as she sat erect in Eeuben Hal- 
lo well’s one-horse chaise, with bonnet all bent and crumpled 
on one side, countenance streaked and powdered with dust, 
and an old-fashioned black silk drawn around her shoul- 
ders as if she had been a mummy, bent on rolling herself as 
tight as possible. While close beside her sat Hallowell him- 
self, with the faded cabbage rose still drooping from his but- 
ton-hole, the big hat wedged on the back of his head, and his 
honest countenance expressive of discomposure in the highest 
degree. 

The handsome stranger glanced from one to the other of 
this strange party, and evidently comprehending that his pres- 
ence was de trop, under all the circumstances, lifted his hat 
courteously as to a duchess, and passed on, to poor Dora’s 
mingled regret and relief, leaving her coloring and confused, 
as she started back against the flapping canvas of the “ fat 
lady’s ” tent. 

“ Upon — my — word!” slowly ejaculated Joanna, severely 
surveying her sister from the vantage ground of the high 
•chaise. I should like to know what all this means!” 

A word of sympathy or kindness would have melted poor 
little Dora, in her present mood, into tears and submission; 
but her elder sister’s contemptuous anger hardened her into 
stone. 

‘‘ What it mean?” retorted she, with well-assumed 

indifierence. ^ “ Only that I’m not going to be cooped up for- 
ever like a bird in a cage.” 

“ You are a bold, brazen-faced thing!” cried Joanna, half 
choked with rage. “ How dare you stand here, bandying 
words with strangers, in a crowd like this?” 

“ Joanna, Joanna, don’t!” whispered honest Reuben, pull- 
ing at Joanna Beck’s sleeve. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


21 


“ I'm saying no harm/^ said Dora, defiantly. 

“ A child like you/^ went on Joanna, “ that knows nothing 
of the world. You deserve to be shut up in a garret, on bread 
and water, and you shall be, or Til know the reason why. 

“ 1 am not a child,^'’ fiashed out Dora, with burning cheeks 
and eyes that began to lighten liquid defiance. “ And Dm as 
able to take care of myself as you are to take care of me. 

“ Hold your tongue vociferated Joanna. 

“ DonH, Joanna, pleaded Eeuben, almost ready to 

cry. “ Speak to her fair, poor little thing! Don’t be harsh 
with her.” 

But the elder Miss Beck was in no mood to listen to advice 
^ of this temporizing nature. 

“ Theodora,” said she, enunciating the syllables in the man- 
ner which had so often made Dora think her name the ugliest 
in all the world, I ain’t going to sit here arguing with you. 
Get into this carriage and come home with me and Mr. Hal- 
lo well— and then, if you’ll ask his pardon and mine — ” 

“ I won’t!” cried out Dora, the burning roses on her cheek 
fading into a dead white at the indignity of the idea, “ I’ll 
never do it!” 

“ And it ain’t me as wants you to do such a thing,” burst 
out Reuben, unable longer to hold his peace, “ no, nor never 
thought of it. ” 

“Mr. Hallowell,” said Joanna, highly exasperated, “will 
you be so good as to let me manage my own affairs? Theo- 
dora,” turning wrathfully on her younger sister, “ you needn’t 
suppose I’m going to stand this sort of thing from you, no, 
nor yet grandfather ain’t! If you’ll come home with me and 
ask pardon humbly, as I said afore, and promise solemnly that 
you’ll never do such a thing again. I’ll may be try to overlook 
it — if not — ” 

“ Well?” Dora’s large, lovely eyes were lifted, full of 
mute, passionate defiance. 

“ Then,” said Joanna, “ I wash my hands of you, now and 
forever — and you need never dare show yourself under my 
roof again.” 

“.Then I won’t!” clfied Dora, half choked with resentful 
passion, at thus being treated like a truant child. “ Go your 
way, and I’ll go mine!” 

And, flinging the camlet cloak around her, with wild, im- 
pulsive grace of a tragedy queen, she vanished into the throng. 

For a moment Joanna Beck and Eeuben Hallowell sat star- 
ing at each other as if hardly able to believe the evidence of 
their own senses. 


22 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Slie ain^t iu earnest, is she?^’ gasped poor Reuben at last, 
with falling lower jaw and eyes expressive of blank dismay. 

“ I don’t know whether she is or not,” said Miss Joanna, 
recovering herself at last. “But / am. Drive on, Reuben 
Hallowell, if you please.” 

“ AVhere?” said Reuben, staring vacantly at the strong- 
minded spinster. 

“Home I” 

“What! without her?” 

“Yes,” Joanna answered, sharply. 

“ I’ll not do that, blamed if I do!” spoke up the young 
farmer, with more spirit and energy than he had previously 
displayed. “ 1 came here for Dora, and 1 ain’t going back 
without her. That’s flat.” 

“ I’d like to know how you propose to find her among all 
this pack of fools and idiots?” said Joanna, with incredulous 
sarcasm. 

“ I’ll look for her, anyhow,” responded Reuben, shaking 
the reins over his lymphatic old horse’s back, as if it were his 
intention to drive straight through the canvas sides of the 
“fat lady’s ’’tent, in the direction which Dora’s vanishing 
form had taken. 

Joanna Beck turned a deep mahogany red with anger. 

“/ won’t, then,” said she, stepping nimbly out of the equi- 
page. “ And if you won’t take me home, Mr. Reuben Hal- 
lowell, I can return in David Wabley’s carryall that I saw just 
now, half full of soda-water bottles and root-beer, just by the 
outside ticket gates. ” 

And in spite of Hallo well’s remonstrances she kept her 
word. 

While poor Reuben, driving aimlessly about the crowded 
race-ground, shouted at by policemen, and railed at by the 
pedestrians, was straining his eyes vainly for a sight of pretty 
Dora and the red camlet cloak. 

And when at last the gay pageant-of the day was over, the 
greensward and dusty race-course deserted, and the dewy pur- 
ple stillness of the evening settled dowfi over pine thickets and 
solitary glades, he drove sadly av/ay from the post where he 
had been eagerly scrutinizing the concourse of home-returning 
pleasure-seekers, trying to cheer himself with the belief that 
Dora was no doubt safe at home. 

He checked his horse in front of the Lombardy poplars, 
where a solitary light shone out across the road, when at last 
he reached the well-known spot. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


23 


“ Has Dora got home?^^ he called out, striving to speak 
confidently. And Miss Joanna's sharp, hard voice answered: 
“No!" 


CHAPTER IV. 

MISS SUSAN SOPER. 

And what had become of Theodora all this time? 

'Flushed and excited, and with a sore angry throbbing at 
her heart, she had buried herself in the surging crowd, care- 
less of all surroundings, and only anxious to hide herself away 
from her sister and Reuben Hallowell. 

“ How dare they speak so to me?" she murmured, between 
her closed lips, unconsciously condemning honest Reuben in 
the same category with Joanna. “ How dare they look at me 
in that insolent, domineering manner? 1 will submit to their 
insults no longer. I will be free ! Am 1 not sixteen years 
old? Is there any reason that I should humiliate myself in 
the dust at their will?" 

She had paused to look neither to one side nor the other, 
but frantically made her way toward the further entrance of 
the race-ground, ran, rather than walked over the slopes of 
green grass that lay betvveen the inclosure and the distant 
high-road, and never paused until, at the crest of a gently 
wooded knoll she was compelled to stop and recover her wild- 
ly fluttering breath. 

Far away, she could see the glittering flags of the race- 
course, with the crowd blackening the turf, the oval white 
line of the course, and the tiers upon tiers of the fast- 
thinning grand stand; and in spite of the mingled terror and 
anger of her untutored heart, a strange sense of exultation 
took possession of her. 

She h^d broken the bonds that fastened her to that wretched, 
drudging life at home — she was free! 

She threw aside the cumbersome folds of the red cloak, and 
sat down under a spreading beech-tr6e, with the south wind 
fanning her forehead, and tried to resolve what it would be 
best to do next. 

For a girl of sixteen years old, brought up in the limited 
sphere of a country farm-house, has but a slender stock of ex- 
perience to draw upon in a sudden emergency like this. 

“ I will go to Susan Soper!" she thought, starting up at 
last. “ She will advise me; she will tell me what to do. She 
has often told me that I was burying myself alive in that dis- 
mal old house with grandfather and Joanna." 


/ 


24 LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 

And with new energy, she set forth upon the long, hot walk 
across the fields to the village. 

Fortunately for her, the streets were almost as deserted as 
those of an enchanted city in the sultry hush of the J uly mid- 
afternoon. The elms, that met in a sort of overarching 
arcade in the center of the broad, quiet street, scarcely stirred 
in the tropical stillness of the afternoon — the plate-glass fronts 
of the gay shops and bazaars fiashed back the westering sun- 
shine, and scarcely a footfall sounded on the burning pave- 
ments. Here and there a sleepy old gentleman nodded over 
his newspaper on the broad veranda of some monster hotel, or 
a group of children played in the grounds, under the surveil- 
lance of their white-capped honnes. The clerks, yawning at 
the shop-doors, stared as the slight little figure in the quaint 
red cloak and startled dark eyes flitted by — and the colored 
porter, who was sprinkling the pavement in front of the 
Grand Union Hotel, before the afternoon trains should bring 
a re-enforcement of noise and bustle, looked dubiously at heri 
as she paused at the foot of the majestic flight of steps which 
led up to the superbly colonnaded portico. 

“ Got any business with the housekeeper?^’ said he, check- 
ing the cool spray that fell so gratefully on the hissing flags. 

“ I wanted to see Miss Soper, if you please,” hesitated 
Dora. 

“ Oh!” said the man, civilly enough; “ it’s Miss Ravenel’s 
maid, ain’t it? Just step upstairs — it’s No. 443.” 

Miss Kavenel’s room, on the second floor of the monster 
hotel, was large and cool and airy, with windows opening into 
the green, shadowy boughs of the elms, and commanding a 
view beyond Congress Park, with its green slopes and 
templed springs, where a band of music was playing one of 
Strauss’s dreamy waltzes, and the Oriental glitter of fountains 
sparkled mistily through the air. The carpet was of velvet- 
soft Axminster, the chairs and sofas of blue puffed brocade, 
and the curtains of dark-blue brocatel, lined with embroidered 
lace — and in the midst of all this sumptuousness reclined Miss 
Susan Soper, in a French cambric dress, with her hair done 
up in puffs and a novel in her hands — a middle-aged and 
rather sour-looking female, with whitish-blue eyes, a freckled 
complexion, and a sharp, thin nose, with a curious little hump 
upon its bridge like a dromedary’s back. She started at the 
knock that broke in upon the love rhapsodies of the Lady Isa- 
bel in the copy of “ East Lynne ” that she was reading. 

“ It ain’t never Miss Ravenel come back,” said Susan 
Soper, flinging the novel under the sofa, as she made haste to 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


25 


respond to the summons. “Oh! it^s Dora Beck; ain^t 
in accents half of vexation, half of relief. “ Well, I should 
like to know what brings you here at this time o^ day, with 
your face the color of a carnation and your boots all dust, and 
that outlandish gypsy cloak on 

Dora laughed hysterically as she caught sight of herself in 
the broad sheet of an opposite mirror which extended from 
ceiling to floor. 

“It does look strange, doesn^t it?’’ said she. “But oh, 
it’s a deal stranger than it looks, Susan Soper!” 

Miss Soper stared harder than ^ver. 

“ Dora Beck,” said she, “ what on earth do you mean?” 

“I’ve run away!” said Dora Beck. “That’s what I 
mean!” 

“ Well, I never!” said Miss Soper. “ Kun away from 
tvho?” 

“ From Joanna!” cried the girl. And from Reuben Hal- 
lo well. And if you betray me to either of them, Susan 
Soper,” she added, with a gasping sob, “I’ll never forgive 
you!” 

“ You’re safe enough as far as 7 am concerned,” said Miss 
Soper. “ 1 should have run away long ago if I had been you. 
So you’ve broke loose at last, have you? And what are you 
going to do now?” 

Dora had sunk helplessly down on a low Turkish ottoman, 
with the golden hair hanging like a veil about her face, and 
the deep color burning on her cheeks, while her eyes glistened 
with a strange and feverish luster. 

“ I don’t know,” said she. “ I have come to you to advise 
me!” 

“ Well,” said Miss Soper, rather dubiously, “before I do 
anything of that sort, you’d better begin at the beginning and 
tell me all about it?” 

“ I couldn’t tell you all, if I were to try,” said Dora, wildly. 
“ They’ve scolded me, and lectured me, and treated me like a 
three-year-old bab}^, until I couldn’t endure it any longer.” 

“ Exactly,” said Miss Soper. “ Don’t I know Joanna Beck 
and her overbearing ways?” 

“ Yes,” added Dora, “ and then I wanted to go to the 
races, and Joanna and grandfather said I shouldn’t. And I 
got up before daylight and crept out at the back door and 
gave them all the slip.” 

“ Eo!” cried Susan Soper, evidently rather impressed with 
Ihe spirit and enterprise of the little golden-haired lassie who 
sat there before her, like a bending wild flower. 


26 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Yes, 1 did!'" cried Dora, exultantly. “ But Joanna and 
Reuben Ilallowell came after me, and — 

“ ril wager they did,^" said Miss Soper, excitedly. “ Like 
two cats after a mouse. 

“ And they scolded me,^^ went on Dora, with a tremulous 
voice, “ and called me such hard names — and they said — that 
is, Joanna said— that I should never come back under her 
roof again. So I cried out, in a passion, that I never would — 
and 1 dashed away from them and came here. . 

“ And they don't know where you are?" 

“Of course not," Dora answered, with a nervous glance 
over her shoulder, as if she half expected to see Miss Joanna's 
tall figure gliding up behind her. “ How should they?" 

“ I don't know, I'm sure," said Susan Soper, meditatively 
biting her nails. “ Perhaps knowing, as they do, that yod 
and I have always been friends, they'll bethink themselves to 
come here and inquire." 

“ And if they do?" cried Dora, in a panic of dismay, as 
she clasped her hands together. 

“ I shall tell 'em 1 don't know anything about you," said 
Miss Soper, coolly. 

Dora flung both arms. about her neck, crying out, “Oh, 
Susan, how good you are!" 

“ You needn't choke me to death on that account," said 
Susan, remonstratingly. 

“ And what shall 1 do?" questioned Dora, nervously wring- 
ing her hands. 

“ I don't know," answered Susan Soper, smoothing down, 
the folds of her cambric dress where Dora's inconsiderate em- 
brace had crumpled it, “ There's time enough to think about 
that. " 

“ But I must go somewhere," went on Dora, pleadingly. 
“ 1 can't stay here." 

“ I ain't so certain about that," nodded Miss Soper, oracu- 
larly. “ If things had happened to suit your case exactly, 
Dora Beck, they couldn't have turned out better. Miss 
Ravenel has gone up to Lake George with a party of camp- 
ing-out ladies and gentlemen, where the valets and ladies'- 
maids all have to be left behind. And she is to be gone a week 
certain, and may be more; and what's to hinder your staying 
here with me, and looking out, quiet and peaceable like, for a 
good situation with some lady?" 

“ Oh, Susan!" Dora cried, ecstatically. 

“ And I dare say," added Susan Soper, who was not at all 
averse to the idea of i^atronizing a young beauty like the old 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


27 


farmer’s rebellious granddaughter, “ that I can give you a few 
ideas about dress-making and bonnet-trimming, and that sort 
of thing, and my recommendation will go a great way with 
some ladies that 1 could name. So you see there ain’t the 
least occasion in life for fretting, and you’d best step into Miss 
Ravenel’s bedroom and lay off your things, and try and get a 
little of the dust off your face, while 1 go down and see if I 
can get one of the waiters to give me a cup of tea.” 

Little Dora looked timidly around at the splendors of Miss 
Haveners own private apartment, when she was left alone— 
at the clouds of filmy lace that hung like a vapor around tlie 
bed, the superb mirrors and the low satin sofas, the gilded 
dressing-case and elaborately ornamented chiffoniers — the cut- 
glass cologne-bottles and powder-boxes, the Kussia-leaLher 
glove-cases and Swiss handkerchief-boxes, and a score of other 
dainty toilet accessories, whose very names she was as yet un- 
acquainted with. 

“If 1 could be a lady’s-maid, like Susan Soper,” she 
thought, involuntarily clasping her hands, “ and handle such 
beautiful things as these every day! Oh! 1 am so glad that I 
ran away!” 

Susan Soper came back presently with a cup of steaming 
tea, and a tray of bread and butter and cold ham, cut in 
dainty pink slices, which poor Dora, who had tasted nothing 
all day; devoured like a famished creature. The strong tea 
refreshed her like a draught of wine; the food revived her, 
and she sat eagerly watching Miss Soper as she opened and 
shut the various wardrobe doors, in search of some dress which 
she had received orders to alter during the absence of her mis- 
tress. 

“ Oh, Susan!” cried she, as she caught a glimpse of some- 
thing white and glittering within the tallest of the wardrobe 
doors, “ what an exquisite dress!” 

“ 1 believe you,” nodded Susan. “ It’s Undine, for a fancy 
masquerade.” 

“ It’s — what?” timidly repeated Dora, whose acquaintance 
with imaginative literature was, as may be supposed, not ex- 
tensive. 

“ Undine,” repeated. Susan Soper. “ Don’t you know? 
The water spirit. ” 

She unlocked the door again, and took out a glittering 
fabrication of white tulle, besprinkled all over witfi crystals, 
in imitation of water-drops, braided with long grass and sedges, 
and trimmed around the corsage with half-open water-lily 
buds and leaves. The underskirt, of watered white silk, was 


28 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


bordered with liiy leaves and buds also, and a wreath of crystal 
rain-drops and grasses to decorate the hair, in accordance with 
the rest of the toilet, was tacked to the belt. 

Dora stood breathlessly before it, with clasped hands, and 
eyes shining like deep stars. 

“ Is it for — a party?’^ she asked, in a low, eager voice. 

“ For a fancy-dress ball,^’ said Miss Soper, complacently, 
as she turned the dress around and around, arranging hero a 
cluster of grasses and* there adjusting a lovely velvet lily leaf 
so that it should not obscure the snow-hearted hud beside it. 
“ It^s to come off in the great ball-room here to-night. 
There^s the admission tickets in the dressing-box now — the 
white one, with the gilded edge. But, you see, the camping- 
out business drove the whole thing out of Miss RaveneFs head. 
However, there’ll most likely be plenty more masquerades dur- 
ing the season, and she’ll have chances enough to wear the 
dress, never fear. ” . 

“ Susan!” Dora spoke the word under her breath, and 
with cheeks all aglow. 

“Well?” Miss Soper was engaged in pulling out the long 
white watered silk train under the tulle draperies. 

“ How I should like to try on that dress!” 

“ Nonsense!” said Susan, brusquely. 

“ Do let me, Susan!” urged the girl; “ just once. I’ll be 
so careful. I’ll not hurt it the least bit in the world. Dear 
Susan do 

Miss Soper shook her head, relentless to the pleading accents 
of her companion. 

“ Are you crazy?” said she. “ Do you know how much 
this dress is worth? A real imported costume, that can’t be 
matched, not if you was to go up and down Broadway on your 
knees. And the tulle as frail as vanity, and the beautiful 
French flowers and crystal water-drops, as 1 hardly dare even ^ 
to look at.” 

“ But'l tell you, Susan, I won’t hurt it,” entreated Dora, 
with her eyes riveted to the beautiful dress with its ideal, trim- 
mings. 

“No, you won’t,” nodded Susan Soper. “ And good rea- 
son why — because you’ll not have the chance.” 

She hung the dress carefully up in that special compartment 
of the wardrobe which was reserved for its occupancy, locked 
the mirror-fronted door with a complacent little “ snap,” and 
dropped the key into her pocket. 

“ And now, Dora Beck,” said she, “ I should advise you to 
lie down on the sofa and rest a little, or sleep if you can; be- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 29 

cause r*m going out to tea with Mrs. Major Ashburton^s maid 
and two or three other genteel friends.’^ 

“Are'you?’^ Dora looked blankly at Miss Soper as that 
damsel took her thin light hair out of its multitudinous crimp- 
ing papers, powdered her complexion into a mealy whiteness, 
and proceeded to exchange her cambric dress for one of cheap, 
changeable silk, and thought how lonely she— Dora — would 
be, in that great, high-ceiled, perfumed room. 

“ I’m sorry I can’t take you,” went on Miss Soper; “ but 
this is a special invite occasion, and I shouldn’t venture to in- 
troduce any friend without permission. And besides, you 
ain’t dressed exactly for a tea-party. ” 

“ Ah, no,” said Dora, involuntarily reddening as she glanced 
down at her dusty boots and the bedraggled hem of her poor 
pitiful dress, and felt how shabby her lace frills must be by 
this time. 

“ So if you will excuse,” said Susan Soper, “ I’ll try not to 
be longer that 1 can help. I will ask my friend the head- 
waiter to send you up a little bite of something at tea-time, 
and 1 dare say you will be glad of the chance to sleep.” 

“ When do you think you shall be back?” dolorously asked 
Dora. 

“ Oh, 1 don’t know. Ten or eleven o’clock*, I dare say.” 

And with a farewell glance at the mirror and a complacent 
arrangement of her pink ribbon cross. Miss Susan Soper de- 
parted. 


CHAPTER V. 

“UNDIITE.” 

As soon as the clang of the great door conveyed to Dora 
Beck’s mind the conviction that she was left quite alone, she 
glanced around with a frightened look, as if the waving cur- 
tains and the level rays of the afternoon sunshine that found 
their way through the clustering elm leaves, and the other lit- 
tle Doras that looked at her with startled eyes from the mirror 
linings ot the panels were so many lurking ghosts. And she 
would have burst out into a hearty crying fit, if she had not 
remembered just in time that she was sixteen years old and 
had just run away. 

“ Sleep,” said Dora to herself, “ 1 couldn’t sleep a wink, 
with all these troubled thoughts and fancies crowding through 
my brain.” 

AncLso, by way of diverting her mind, she knelt down on 
the carpet close to the window, leaning her elbows on the sill. 


30 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


looked out into the gay street below, and across to the park, 
where the music was still playing, and the promenaders were 
beginning to flock in, to drink the spring waters and enjoy the 
delicious coolness of the sunset. 

The street had lost its enchanted city aspect by this time. 
With the westering shadows and the fresh breeze that had 
sprung up, the fashionable world had seemed to pour out with 
one accord from the broad piazzas and colonnaded verandas 
of the hotels. Superbly dressed ladies, lovely, as Dora rapt- 
urously thought, as if they had stepped bodily out of the I^aris 
fashion-plates in the dress-maker^s window, glided up and 
down the pavement with a rustle of fleecy muslin or shimmer- 
ing silk behind them, tiny parasols like magnified flowers, and 
such bonnets as Dora had never before dreamed of — handsome 
cavaliers, as unlike poor Reuben Hallowell as if they belonged 
to a different race, sauntered languidly at their sides — glitter- 
ing carriages crowded each other in the broad shaded street, 
and parties of gay equestrians sped by with laughter floating 
on the breeze and upturned faces so full of happy exhilaration 
that impulsive Dora smiled in answer to their smiles as if the 
greeting had been intended especially for herself. 

“ Oh,^^ cried Dora, speaking aloud, in the tumultuous full- 
ness of her heart, as a breeze of triumphal music reached her 
from the string band in the park. “ 1 never thought Sara- 
toga could be like this V’ 

And in good truth, Saratoga, d.s she had seen it heretofore 
under Joanna^s auspices, when they trudged in with baskets 
of laundried clothes, creeping along through the back 
streets and stealing into the basement entrance of the hotels, 
was a very different Saratoga from that upon which her eyes 
rested this evening. 

“ Why wasi not born in a sphere like this?^^ the girl asked 
herself, envyingly. “ But still, would it not be better to be 
lady’s-maid to one of these fair, haughty creatures, whose tiny 
feet scarcely touch the pavement, and whose dress rustles 
along like a silken surf behind her, than to drudge on at home 
forever with Joanna scolding, and nothing but calico dresses 
to wear? At all events, 1 mean to try it.” 

And Dora rose valorously to her feet, and began to pace 
restlessly up and down the floor. 

The soft, fragrant darkness of the summer twilight had de- 
scended over the rustling tree-tops; the street lamps shone up 
like stars, here and there, and the rows of lights above the 
hotel portals glittered like blotches of fire. The omnibuses 
and carriages from the incoming trains were rattling noisily by 


31 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 

—a hum of cheerful voices rose up from the verandas below — 
and still Dora sat there alone. At last a smiling colored man 
tapped at the door, with a little tray of supper. 

“ For de young lady in Miss RaveneFs room/^ said he. 
“ AiF I mustn^’t stay long, for F’se done got to help wax de 
floors in de big ball-room for de hop to-night. 

lie went away again, and Dora eat her supper and pondered 
still longer about the glories of the masquerade ball. 

All of a sudden she sprung up and turned on the gas-burner 
which the colored man had already lighted. 

“ Why didn’t 1 think of it before?” said she, aloud, as she 
danced up and down on the tips of her little weary toes. 
“ The key is in Susan’s calico pocket — the dress hanging in 
the wardrobe. I icill try it on.” 

She drew together the blue brocatel curtains, as if fear- 
ful le&t even the stars and the rustling elm leaves should wit- 
ness her escapade, and then, with tremulous fingers, put her 
slender hand into the depths of the dress which Susan Sojper 
had left hanging upon a row of pegs behind the door, drew 
out the key, and unlocked the wardrobe door.' 

There hung the glittering dress, all misty white and pale 
sea green, with the half-open buds seeming actually to unfold 
in the semi-light, and the crystal water-drops sparkling all 
over it like powdered diamonds — and it was the work of scarce- 
ly five minutes for Dora to fiing aside the poor little pink iwlo- 
naise which she had thought so beautiful a short twenty-four 
hours ago, and assume the exquisite French costume which 
served to transform her into a different person. With trem- 
bling hands she fastened the fringes of crystal and trailing 
grass into her golden braids, and drew on a pair of white kid 
gloves which lay in theJRussia-leather glove-box— ^the first kid 
gloves which our little country damsel had ever worn, and 
which she thought excruciatingly tight. 

“ Rut they do make my hands look so small!” thought 
Dora, as she viewed them with exultant delight. 

She walked once or twice up and down the room, listening 
rapturously to the soft sweep of her white silk robe over the 
mossy carpet; she viewed herself, almost incredulously, in the 
expanse of glistening mirror. 

“ Am I really the little drudging Dora of the old farm- 
house?” she asked herself, with a soft little peal of laughter. 
“ Or am 1 a fairy j^rincess, ready to float away into a magic 
castle of pearl and gold? And where is my fairy prince?” 

Instinctively as she uttered the careless words, her mind re- 
verted to the dark eyes and rich olive complexion of the hand- 


32 - 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


some stranger of the Saratoga race-ground; the hot color rose 
to her cheeks, and she involuntarily turned away from the tell- 
tale reflections of the mirror. 

“ How silly 1 am/^ thought she. “As if it were likely 
that I should ever see him again. 

At the same moment her eye chanced to fall on the ball- 
ticket lying against the white-lined lid of Miss Haveners 
pearl-mounted dressing-case; she caught it up, with an elec- 
tric glitter of the deep-brown eyes. 

“ It^s destiny!” she cried; “destiny, and nothing else. 
The fairy princess story is begun, but not ended. For one 
night, at least, I will live in the world of my dreams!” 

She caught up the white silk 02 :)era-cloak edged with a 
fringe of the softest white ostrich plumes, and drew its co- 
quettish hood over her head, and the next moment she was 
gliding along the broad veranda of the inside court, all studded 
with lamps and looking out into shady lawns with threes mur- 
muring overhead and a fountain plashing in the middle. 

“ Why shouldnT i go to a ball as well as Cinderella?” said 
pretty Dora to herself, her eyes shining full of half-terrified 
delight under the snowy fringe of her opera hood. 

Mr. Musard Falkland had had a herculean task of it to in- 
duce his young English friend to attend the fancy-dress gath- 
ering in the great ball-room of the Grand Union Hotel that 
night. Basil Branchley, with a novel in his hand, a cigar in 
his mouth, and a reclining- chair drawn up in the very coolest 
corner of his room, was so exceedingly comfortable that he at 
first absolutely declined to stir. 

“ Why should I go down into that place, all gas-light and 
patchouli?” said he, impatiently, when his friend importuned 
him to lay aside the enclranting pages of “ Monte-Cristo.” 
“ Haven't 1 had enough of crowds and ({rushes for one day 
in that ill-managed race-course of yours?” 

Falkland looked at him in despair — so handsome, so immov- 
able, so utterly unheedful of all argument or remonstration. 

“ But look here, Branchley,” said he, “ this won't do!'^ 

“ Why won't it do?” 

Branchley laid down the book, clasped his hands at the back 
of his head, and prepared to battle the question inch by inch. 

“You promised Miss Montchessington. ” 

“ Did 1? Well, she'll never think of it again.” 

“ And really, if you expect to see anything of American 
society — '' 

“ My dear fellow, did I ever lead you to suppose that that 
was my idea in visiting this country?” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


33 


“ Falkland answered; “ but one would naturally sup- 
pose that a fancy-dress ball at a place like this would have 
some attraction for a man under thirty."” 

“You see, IVe had so much of that sort of thing at 
home,” said Branchley, suppressing an incipient yawn. 

“ Oh, come now, old fellow,” urged Falkland. “ Don"*! 
back down in this sort of way, unless you want to ruin my 
credit forever with Miss Montchessington, and the Blossoms, 
and that set. ” 

“ Oh, if you put it on the ground of personal friendship,” 
said Mr. Branchley, with a slight, deprecatory motion of the 
hand. 

“ 1 do!” cried Falkland, eagerly. 

“ Then I suppose the sacrifice has got to be made. But 
mind” — with a peremptory contraction of the brows — “I 
dohT bargain for more than half an hour of it. There are 
limits to a man’s endurance.” 

The full band was playing a lively galop of Offenbach’s 
when the two young men lounged into the ball-room, with its 
flower^arlanded walls and brilliant waxed floor — the English- 
man, with his fair, handsome face set off by a white camellia 
in his button-hole, and all the accessories of the irreproachable 
full dress, for Musard Falkland’s entreaties had been unavail- 
ing to induce him to assume any fancy costume. 

“ If I can’t go as I please, I won’t go at all,” said he, reso- 
lutely; and Falkland had been compelled to submit. 

He put up his eyeglass as he entered, looking carelessly 
around at the Evenings, the Mornings, the Italian Flower 
Venders, and the Swiss Peasant Girls who were whirling over 
the floor or waiting anxiously among the banks of wall-flowers 
that lined the sides of the room for possible partners. But 
all of a sudden the critical expression vanished from his face, 
and a sudden light ^bf recognition flashed into his eyes, as he 
observed a beautiful Undine in white, with a braiding of lily 
buds and grasses around her dress, and crystal water-drops 
sparkling all over her — a golden-haired girl, with roses glow- 
ing in her cheeks, and the loveliest dark eyes that ever his 
gaze had rested on. 

“ Falkland,” said he, “ who is that girl — the one by the 
open window, with ggisses- and dew-drops in her hair, and a 
dress trimmed with green?” 

“ Which one?” Falkland was staring here and there in 
the most. impossible of places, with the provoking obtuseness 
w^hich people sometimes display on such occasions. 

“ Not there, man — not there,” whispered Branchley, seiz- 


34 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


ing his arm, as if, by physical force, he could turn him aside 
in the right direction. “Just beyond the enormously fat 
lady in the pink silk. DonH you see.^'"’ 

“ Oh!^’ said Falkland, with coolness; “1 do see now. Yel- 
low-haired, isn^t she? with big, dark eyes, and a white tulle 
dress over satin, and attired as Undine, the Water-Spirit?’^ 

“Yes, 1 know,” cried Basil Branchley, imi^atiently, “ but 
who is it?” 

“ How should I know?” said Falkland, laughing. “ Though, 
stay — didn’t. I hear? yes, 1 did — that Miss Bavenel, from 
Syracuse, was to appear as Undine.” 

“ Miss Kavenel?” repeated Branchley. “ Then it was all a 
masquerade from beginning to end!” 

“ What was all a masquerade?” 

“Never mind,” answered Branchley, hurriedly. “Will 
you introduce me?” 

. “ Unfortunately, my dear fellow, I can not, not having the 
pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the fair Undine,” 
Falkland replied, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

“ Then I shall introduce myself.” 

“Nonsense!” 

“ Ah, you don’t understand,” said Branchley. “ You do 
not know that 1 have already a partial acquaintance with the 
golden-tressed Undine?” 

And he crossed the floor with a swift, careless stride, while 
Falkland looked after him in amazement. 

“They talk of American assurance,” thought he, “but 
upon my word, I think the English article exceeds it. 1 shall 
like to see how the haughty Kavenel will freeze Branchley with 
a glance.” 

But he was disappointed. 

Basil Branchley walked coolly up to the beautiful Undine 
and bowed low. ' '' 

“ Miss Kavenel,” said he, “ you are discovered. You must 
plead guilty, and recommend yourself to the mercy of the 
court.” 

Dora looked up blushing and confused, but prettier than 
ever. 

“ I — I don’t understand you,” said she. . 

“ Then you will not confess yourself to be the gypsy fort- 
une-teller of the race-ground this morning?” 

The wine-brown eyes sparkled into his face, full of mischief 
— the rosey lips broke into a smile. 

“ Why should I not confess it?” said she. “Yes, 1 was 
the gyi^sy fortune-teller!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


35 


“ And now you appear as the fairest and most ideal of Un- 
dines. If 1 had only known, I would have ordered a costume 
us Knight lluldbraiid. 

Dora played nervously with the crystal drops. at the edge of 
her sleeve; she did not at all unde^rstand these classic allusions. 

“ The band is playing a delicious waltz, said Branchley, 
lowering his voice to a tone scarcely above a whisper. ’ “ Will 
yoti honor me?^' 

And little Dora, to whom the very word “ waltz conveyed 
all that was delightful and entertaining in the world, floated 
away in the dreamy curves of a motion that seemed absolutely 
divine. 

“He takes me for Miss Ravenel,^’ she thought. “Oh, 
how, how shall I ever escape from this net-work of 'duplicity? 
But for the present, at least, I need only enjoy myself.^' 


CHAPTER VI. 

“you can not stay here."^ 

The clock was striking midnight as Miss Soper started from 
an uncomfortable sleep in her chair, and beheld by the dim 
light of the gas-burner a radiant vision in white and crystal, 
with golden hair streaming down over her back, and eyes shin- 
ing like stars under their long lashes. 

“ AVell, I never said Miss Soper. 

“ Of course you didnT, Susan, said Dora, merrily dancing 
into the room. “Nor I— nor anybody else. Tell me, how 
do I lookr^ 

Susan^s grim face relaxed into an involuntary smile. 

“ I couldnT hardly believe it was you,^’ said she, “ when I 
peeped into the ball-room door and see you a-waltzing with 
that young Englishman as they say is heir to an earldom. 

“ What!'’^ cried Dora, flinging herself in a glittering heap 
on the floor at Susan ^s side. “ Heir to an earldom. Do you 
really mean it, Susan?’^ 

“So they say anyhow,’^ nodded the lady^s-maid. “And 
when I We been doing up Miss RavenePs hair I We heard her 
and the young ladies laugh about which of ’em should set 
their caps for him.'” 

“ Does she know him, Susan?” 

“ How should she, child,” said Susan, with some asperity, 
“ when he didn’t come to Saratoga until she had gone to Lake 
George three days? But now get up and take off that dress — 
I hope to gracious it ain’t ruined.” 

“ It isn’t hurt in the least,” Dora saucily retorted. “ Just 


36 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


see/’ s|)reading'Out lier diaphanous skirts with a coquettish 
courtesy, “ every bead and crystal pendant is as perfect as it 
ever was. The tulle may be the least bit crumpled with danc- 
ing, but 1 can easily iron it but again — and oh, Susan, I have 
had such an evening. 1 danced four times with Mr. Branch- 
ley— that’s his name, Susan — and once with another gentle- 
man, who wasn’t nearly so graceful and stepped on my tqes. 
And we had water ices and Charlottes, and — only think, 
Susan, real champagne. And he asked if I’d be at the Con- 
gress Spring to-morrow, and 1 said no, 1 preferred the Wash- 
ington Spring water.” 

‘ ^ U pon — my — word !”^ said Miss Soper. 

“ Wasn’t it airish of me, though?” cried Dora, with danc- 
ing e 3 ^es and cheeks all mantling with roses. “ But I will be 
there, you’ll see, at nine o’clock.” 

“Where?” 

“ At the Washington Spring.” 

“ Dora,” said Miss Soper, warningly, “do you know what 
you are doing?” 

“ Perfectly well,” nodded Dora. “I’m having the splen- 
didest time in the world — just exactly like the heroine of a 
novel. And, Susan dear, darling Susan, do lend me one of 
Miss Ravenel’s dresses just for to-morrow?” 

“ Do you want to lose me my place?” demanded the lady’s- 
maid, recoiling at the idea. 

“It needn’t lose you your place',” urged Dora. “Don’t 
be a crab, Susan; Miss Ravenel isn’t here; she’ll never know 
it. , . And oh, Susan, I must see him once more.” 

Susan Soper was but mortal, and Dora Beck’s coaxing little 
ways would have melted a heart of stone; and the upshot of it 
all was that when the next morning’s sun gilded the tops of 
the tall trees under which the Washington Spring gurgled out 
like a magnified diamond, she sauntered with all a fine lady’s 
airs and graces up to the aristocratic circle which surrounded 
the low rail and drank her glass of cool sparkling spring water 
as if she had been accustomed to the dolce far niente life all 
her days. 

As she stood there in a dress of rich black silk, with a Span- 
ish hat drooping over her brow and a rose-lined parasol in her 
hand a familiar voice smote on her ear— Reuben Ilallowell's 
voice shouting in stentorian accents to his old horse Bonny in 
the elm-shaded street beyond. 

“Hey, there! What ye ’bout, old feller?” he bawled. 
“ Hadn’t we better stop here and inquire, Joanna? You said 
all the hotels. ” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


37 


Dora tarned pale and trembled as she glanced up under the 
shadow of the Spanish hat at Miss Joanna, sitting upright in 
the wagon in the road without, and Keuben pulling desperate- 
ly at old Bonny^s reins. She could have flung a stone into 
the wagon. Eeuben himself, if he had chosen to stretch out 
his whip-lash, could have touched the rose-wreathed brim of 
her hat. 

There was a mementos discussion, during which Dorans 
heart seemed almost to stand still, and then they jogged on, 
without alighting. She turned back to the spring with a sigh 
of relief. 

“How silly 1 am, she thought. “As if Joanna could 
possibly recognize me in such a dress as this, with a real Leg- 
horn hat, and a thread-lace parasol. 

At the same moment a low, deep voice sounded in her ear: 

“ Miss Ravenel.^^ 

And looking up, she met the earnest, chivalrous -gaze of 
Basil Branchley. The color rose into her cheek. 

“ Have you been here long?’^ he asked. “ Will you allow 
me to walk down to the Congress Park with you?'^ 

And side by side they strolled along under the great trees 
to the terraced lawns of the beautiful park, where the band 
had already begun to play. A strange, fluttering sense of ela- 
tion filled Doran’s heart; she felt like one who walks in the 
mazes of a dream, and expects, every moment, to awake to the 
dull realities of every-day life. She was quite silent, but this 
very silence enchanted Basil Branchley. He had dreamed of 
her all night long; he had pondered all the morning of the 
beautiful Undine vision which had crossed his path so unex- 
pectedly. She had impressed him with a strange fascination, 
which as yet he scarcely understood. 

“ 1 say, old fellow, Musard Falkland had said to him at 
the breakfast-table, “you were rather hard hit with Miss 
Bavenel last night. 

“ She is the only really beautiful woman 1 have seen in 
America, said Branchley, rather shortly. 

“ But isn't ^e a little — just a little, you know- — what one 
might call eccentric, with her fortune-telling and her odd, 
brusque manners?’^ 

“I wouldnT give a 6g for a woman who is exactly like all 
the rest of the world, retorted Branchley, curtly. 

And the more he thought about the beautiful fartune-teller 
of the race-ground, the exquisite Undine of the ball-room, the 
more he was interested and attracted. In fact, Mr. Branch- 
ley was desperately in love without being aware of the fact. 


38 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


And, as he stood beside her under the huge forest trees of 
the park, with the music of the band playing softly below, the 
robins trilling overhead, and the rainbow crowd coming and 
going on the plateaus of the terraced banks, he thought he 
had never seen so exquisite a face in his life. 

“Miss Kavenel,’" said he, abruptly, “how long shall you 
remain at Saratoga 

“ 1 — I don^t know,'"' Dora answered, tracing a pattern in 
the graveled jDath at her feet with the ivory point of her 
parasol. 

“ Do you like it?’^ 

“ Oh, so much!’ ^ 

“ iTave you driven out to the lake yet?” 

“No.” 

“ I should like to take you there,” said he, eagerly. 

She did not answer; her startled gaze was riveted on a tall 
advancing figure in mauve muslin, with two or three others, 
along the walk — -the very Miss Egerton whose ^dresses she had 
so often brought home, packed in Joanna’s splint basket, and 
wiiose bank-bills she had received with the meekest of courte- 
sies. 

“Oh, Mr. Branchley!” cried Miss Egerton, bearing [down 
upon the young Englishman like a royal frigate in full sail,' 
with a flutter of flounces — (Dora herself had helped to flute 
them) — a waving scarf, and a white parasol, with which she 
vehemently beckoned — “ where have you hidden yourself all 
this time? We want to consult you about the picnic at the 
lake. And here are Kate Walsingliam and Marjorie Trevor, 
and—” 

Basil Branchley bit his lip with scarcely repressed annoy- 
ance; he answered as briefly as was consistent with ordinary 
politeness, but. when he turned back again, his companion W'as 
gone. 

Gone — vanished — utterly disappeared like a floating cloud 
from the blue heaven above, as a bird into the woods. lie 
could hii.rdly believe his own vision at first; he hurried along 
the path, believing that Miss Ilavenel had become wearied of 
the discussion and strolled on — he scrutinized the group around 
the fountain, the little knots at the various springs, but all 
in vain. 

“ I don’t understand it at all,” said be to himself. “ Have 
I unwillingly offended her? Does she suppose that 1 intended 
to be rude? I wish that withered old coquette of a Miss Eger- 
ton had been in Jericho before she broke in on us, just then, 
of all times in the world!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


39 


While little Dora, with her heart yet wildly throbbing with 
her terror of the recognition which she had so narrowly es- 
caped, was flying swiftly down the path, escaping at the side 
gate which opened on a peaceful and unfrequented street, and 
hurrying back to the hotel as fast as her feet would carry her. 

“ Oh, Susan cried she, bursting into the cool room at the 
Grand Union Hotel, with. golden curls all blown about, and 
rosy lips apart, “ such an adventure! But — stopping short, 
as she observed the expression in Susan Soper^’s face, “ what 
is the matter?’^ 

“Matter enough, Miss Soper answered, sourly. “Take 
off that dress this instant, Theodora Beck. WeVe come to 
an end of all this figuring around in borrowed plumes like the 
jackdaw in the fable. IVe got a telegram from Miss Kavenel, 
and she^s to be home this evening.'’^ 

Dora stood dismayed in the middle of the floor, the pink- 
lined parasol in one hand, the Spanish hat in the other, with 
its deep-rose ribbons trailing on the floor. 

“ Oh, Susan said she, “ what am 1 to do?’^ 

“ Do/^ repeated Miss Soper, tartly, “ why, you didnT sup- 
pose this sort of thing could go on forever, did you? And I 
only hope my mistress wonT suspicion what^’s been going on; 
but I've my doubts about it. However, one thing^s very jdain 
— you canT stay here!” 

“ No,’^ said Dora, faintly, her heart seeming to turn to a 
lump of ice within her. For the strange fantastic life that she 
had led during the last twenty-four hours had begun to as- 
sume an aspect of such intense reality that she could not bear 
to contemplate relapsing once more into the drudgery of ordi- 
nary existence. Her excitable, gypsy temperament had abso- 
lutely reveled in this new life; she felt that she could no more 
go back to the past than one who has slaked his thirst with 
champagne can return contentedly to cold water. 

“ Of course,^^ added Susan, “ you must go somewhere.’^ 

“ Of course,^’ mechanically echoed Dora. 

“ And 1 think — I do really think, said Miss Soper, busy 
with the frills of an apron, “ that youM, better reconsider the 
matter and go back home again. 

“ Never Dora uttered the word with flaming cheeks and 
eyes that seemed to flash electric fire. 

“ IFs no use being a fool,"^ said Susan, crisply. “Home 
is home, if everything ainT quite so smooth there, and a 
giddy-headed young girl like you is a deal better ofl there than 
anywhere else. 

“ Susan, said Dora, in a stifled voice, “ you may as well 


40 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


leave off talking about that. 1^11 never, never go back to Jo- 
anna again — not if I starve first. 

“ Starving ain^t so easy,'"' said Susan Soper, with a shrug 
of the shoulders. “ And she was here this morning. 

“ Whor^ cried Dora. 

“ Joanna. 

“Toseeyou?^’ 

“ Yes, to see me.-’ ^ 

‘‘What did you tell her?” ejaculated Dora, breathlessly, 
while the sudden color rose into her cheeks. 

“1 told her I didn^t know where you was,’^ said Susan, 
bluntly. “ And it was true enough, I didn't know whether 
you was sitting in the back veranda, hearing the band jfiay, or 
drinking the abominable tasting water at the springs, or pric- 
ing bead baskets at the Indian encampment. And 1 can tell 
you that great honest-looking farmer fellow that was with her 
was pretty well cut up about it!’' 

Dora gave her head an impatient toss. “ But tell me,'' 
said she, “ what did Joanna say?'' 

“ She was vexed enough— declared that you liad always 
been more bother than you were worth. '' 

“ That is just like Joanna,'' said Dora, indignantly. 

“ But the young man— Hallowell, is his name?— he silenced 
her at once and said that no one should dare to blame you in 
his hearing." 

“ The great clown!'' cried Dora, in nowise pacified by poor 
Beuben's well-meant intercessions. As if it were any’ol Itis 
business! But oh, Susan, tell me what to do, now." 

“ You must try for some sort of a place, i suppose," said 
Susan, ungraciously. 

Dora pondered the idea with downcast eyes, and restless lit- 
tle foot eagerly patting the fioor. To descend from the aerial 
heights of her fairy existence to the ordinary toil and worry of 
the workaday world, was an alternative not joyously to be 
welcomed. But, in so far as she could see, there was no help 
for it. Bread must be eaten and shoe leather bought, and 
child as she was in all the realities of life, Dora Beck could 
not but recognize the facts. 

“ Susan," said she, “ I should like to get a place like yours. 
I should like to be a lady's-maid. " 

“ I dare say," said Susan Soper, straightening herself up. 
‘‘ Lady’s-maid places don't grow on every bush like blackber- 
ries. And you’ll have to take what you can get, and be 
thankful for it." 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


41 


“But, Susan/ ^ pleaded Dora, “ don^t you -know of any 
place that I could get?^^ 

“ No, 1 don't,^^ Miss Soper uncompromisingly answered. 
“ P’r'aps I could have found one if Td had a little time, but 
it^s quite out of the question now. 

Dora wrung her hands. “ Oh, what shall 1 do?’" cried she, 
“ what shall 1 do?^" 

“What I advised you,^' said Susan, grimly. “Go home 
and make the best you can of affairs there."” 

“ No,^^ said Dora, with an emphatic stamp of her little foot, 
“ that is quite decided. 1 will not go home.^"’ 

“ Well,” sa'u Susan, indifferently, “ you know you can not 
stay/ierer’ 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SILVER SPOUT. 

“ Miss Ravekel?’’ 

Basil Branchley was standing under the superb elms in front 
of the hotel when Captain Despard uttered the name. The 
color flushed up to his face; he started involuntarily. 

“ Yes,” said Captain Despard, carelessly throwing his cigar 
into the street, “ GertyRavenel — the prettiest girl at Saratoga 
Springs. There she comes now, with Miss Collingwood.” 

Brancliley^s inquiring gaze roved up the street and down, 
with a passionate eagerness of search, but all in vain. 

“ 1 do not see her?” said he. 

“ Then you must be blind,” said Captain Despard. “ The 
tall girl with the blue dress and the lace scarf that is fluttering 
in tlie breeze. Stop a minute — ITl introduce you. Miss 
Ravenel,” as the party drew near, “ we are delighted to see 
you back again at the Springs. Allow me to present my 
friend Mr. Branchley.” 

Mechanically Basil Branchley bowed, but in his secret heart 
he could scarcely control his surprise and bewilderment. Was 
he under the magic influence of a spell, or was the whole world 
en%iasquerade ? For this tall beauty with the pink and white 
complexion, the violet-gray eyes, shadowed under long lashes, 
and the dark chestnut hair falling in soft loose curls on her 
shoulders, was no more like the golden-haired enchantress of 
the ball-room than a stately lily is like a wild rosebud. 

“Pardon me. Miss Ravenel,” said he, “but — I believe I 
have had the pleasure of meeting your sister.” 

Miss Ravenel looked at him in surprise. 

“ My sister?” repeated she. “ But I have no sister.” 


4:2 


LOVE AT SAEATOQA. 


“ Indeed? Then the other Miss Eavenel is no relation of 
yours?^^ he questioned, more bewildered than ever. 

(Gertrude Eavenel looked at Captain Despard as if for an 
explanation. 

“ What other Miss Eavenel?"^ said she. “ I am the only 
person at Saratoga bearing the name.’’ 

Mr. Branchley smiled. 

“ I danced with Miss Eavenel night before last at the Grand 
Union ball-room/^ said he. 

“ My dear fellow, you are mistaken,^^ said Captain Despard. 
“ It must have been some confusion of names. There is only 
one Miss Eavenel at Saratoga, and she was in Lake George 
night before last. 

“A clearly proven aliU!^^ said Mr. Branchley. But he 
went straight to Musard Falkland. 

“ Falkland,^^said he, “ the mystery deepens.’^ 

“What mystery said Falkland, whg was deep in the 
New York papers, which had just arrived by the morning 
train. 

“ I have just been introduced to Miss Eavenel, and she isnT 
Miss Eavenel at all, but quite a different person. 

“ Then there must be Hvo Miss Eavenels,^^ said Falkland, 
decidedly. 

“ She declares that there are not.^’ 

“ Stop,^^ said Falkland, who had been turning "the matter 
ov^r in his mind with contracted foroJiead. “ We have blun- 
dered into some ridiculous misunderstancfhig. Did this mys- 
terious fair one with the golden locks, who has disappeared 
like a shadow from our eyes, say that she was Miss Eavenel?’’ 

Branchley pondered a moment. 

“ No,” said he. “ But she allowed me to infer it.” 

“ All!” said Falkland. “ That’s quite a different matter.” 

“ But what in the name of common sense does it all mean?” 
cried the Englishman. 

“ Simply a pretty girl’s joke,” said Falkland, laughing. 
“ She has befooled us all to the top of our bent.” 

“ And where is she now?” 

Falkland shrugged his shoulders. “ You might as well ask 
where the morning migts have floated to,” said he. “ The 
probabilities are that we shall none of us ever see her again.” 

Basil Branchley was silent, but in his heart he registered a 
vow that he would see the young beauty again. In all his life 
he had never looked upon a face that had enchanted him with 
such subtle, powerful influence. The liquid hazel eyes haunt- 
ed him with their deep lights— the shy smiles came back to his 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


43 


memory with even sweeter charms— and Basil Branchley was 
forced to confess to himself that he had actually fallen in love 
with a girl whom he had never seen but three times! A girl 
of whom he knew nothing, not even her name. 

“ I will find her out,^^ he repeated, over and over again to 
himself. “ 1 must find her out. And then the mystery will 
be fathomed.-’^ 

For there was no concealing from his own consciousness the 
fact that life without the beautiful gypsy-faced unknown 
would be dreary and barren enough. 

“ A fool!” he repeated savagely to himself. “ Of course 1 
am a fool — but all that does not alter the hungry gnawing at 
my heart, the sick longing to look ouce more into those mar- 
velous eyes. ” 

And to his prejudiced vision, the fair faces of all the Sara- 
toga beauties were “ stale, flat, and unprofitable ” studies. 

“ I tv ill find her,” he had said; but three days had elapsed 
and he was as far from the realization of his object as ever. 

It was nine o’clock on the fourth morning — a bright sum- 
mer day, with a deep-blue sky overhead, and the smell of new- 
mown hay in the air. The Hawthorn Spring was already sur- 
rounded % a perfumed and rustling crowd of ladies, eager to 
drink the morning tonic, which was popularly supposed to 
restore the roses w'hich had been faded out by last night’s 
waltzing. Gay greetings were exchanged, sweet laughter hung 
on the breeze — but in all the gay throng. Miss Eavenel stood 
silent and absorbed, apparently waiting for the little water- 
dipper to reach her in the regular rotation with which he dealt 
out his brimming tumblers, but in reality absorbed by her own 
thoughts. 

“ Gerty Kavenel,” called out a clear, girlish voice, as a 
rosy-cheeked maiden in white muslin, with floating blue rib- 
bons, came running toward her. “ Oh, 1 am so glad to see 
you. I want to speak to you about the party in the Silver 
Spout this morning. Of course you’ll go.” 

Miss Ravenel lifted her large violet-gray eyes to Flora 
Rivers’ face, with a languid effort at interest. 

‘‘ Is it nice there?” said she. 

“ Harry Despard says it’s a perfect woodland grotto, with 
a rocky cave all ferns and wild roses, a cascade hidden among 
the trees, and the prettiest little spouting spring that you ever 
saw. ” 

“ It is a very warm morning,” slowly observed Miss Rave- 
nel, as if she were wearied even by the effort of thinking of 
the proj^osed expedition. 


44 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Oh, but we shall drive. And it^s not far. Dear Gerty, 
do go/" coaxed Miss Rivers, caressiugly flinging her arm 
around the other’s waist. 

“ Who is to be of the party?” asked Gertrude Ravenel, 
languidly sipping the cool and sparkling water which had just 
been handed to her. 

“ Harry and Diana Despard — and the Colling wood girls, 
and Ray Montressor, and that party of southerners from Con- 
gress Hall — ” 

“ All of them bores!” yawned Miss Ravenel. 

“ Oh, Gerty!” remonstrated her friend; “ when Harry Des- 
pard is so mortally smitten by your lecmx yeux ! Oh,' and I 
forgot — there is Mr. Falkland and his friend^ the blue-eyed 
Englishman. ” 

“Mr. Branchley?” The lovely violet eyes sparkled into 
sudden animation — the pallid cheek deepened into rosy bloom. 
“ If he is to go, 1 may possibly reconsider objections. He 
is one degree less intolerable than the others, and besides, he 
possesses the charm of novelty.” 

She spoke with a mocking laugh, as if she would fain con- 
ceal her too evident pleasure in the idea of goiug to the Silver 
Spout in Basil Branchley "s society — and Miss Rivers had tact 
enough to abstain from making any remark upon her sudden 
change of opinion, although she could not repress an arch 
smile. 

“ You’ll be ready then?” said she. “ At eleven?” 

“ 1 will be ready,” assented Miss Ravenel. 

And Susan Soper had never found her young lady half so 
exacting in regard to her toilet as upon this particular morn- 
ing. Twice the unlucky femme de chamhre was compelled to 
put up the glossy masses of chestnut-brown hair, and take it 
all down again, before Miss Ravenel was satisfied with the 
effect, and nearly every dress in the well-filled wardrobe was 
brought out and critically inspected before the young belle de- 
cided finally on a pale-mauve grenadine decorated with knots 
of the softest lilac ribbon. 

“ Soper!” suddenly exclaimed Miss Ravenel, as she looked 
for the first time at the other compartment of the wardrobe, 
“ you must have unpacked that IJndine dress of mine very 
carelessly. See how crumpled it is. ” 

Susan Soper turned very red. 

“ It must have been hanging under some of the heavier 
dresses, ma’am,” said she. 

“ But it is your business to see that it is taken proper care 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 45 

of,^^ said Miss Ravenel, sharply. Take it out and bring it 
here. 

“ Do you think you have time, ma’am?"^ asked Susan, all 
in a flutter. “ It wants only a few minutes of eleven, and I 
see the Oollingwood barouche coming down the street now."’"’ 

Miss Eavenel started up, luckily diverted, for the present at 
least, from the subject of the fancy dress. “ Give me my 
fan, Soper,' said she, hurriedly, “ and the little chip hat with 
the daisies and loops of white ribbon. Is the carriage there? 
Tell them I am coming. 

And Susan Soper drew a long breath of relief as Miss Eavenel 
disappeared behind the plate-glass recesses of the elevator. 

“ If ever l^m caught in such a scrape again, 1 guess ITl 
know it,^^ was her secret meditation. “ I wish that feather- 
brained Dora Beck had been in Jericho before I let her wear 
that dress; it may lose me my place yet.-’^ 

And she set herself busily to work to repair all possible and 
impossible damage, even more carefully than before, before 
her mistress should again observe the dress. 

Miss Eavenel had been one of the reigning beauties at Sara- 
toga that season. Eival cavaliers had striven for the guerdon 
of her smiles; a withered flower from her bouquet was treas- 
ured like virgin gold; her ball card was always filled, and her 
slightest whim studied by a court of loyal admirers. But she 
herself had never felt the sting of Cupid’s dart until Mr. 
Branchley had entered on the scene with his blue English eyes, 
the soft languor of his voice, and the nameless charm of his 
manner. 

“ Do 1 love him?” she asked herself, one evening after they 
had promenaded, la^ in the golden moonlight, on the wide 
verandas, to the miKic of the band. “ Zove him? when he 
has never breathed a word or looked a look to show that he in 
any way distinguished me from the crowd of others who sur- 
round him. Oh, if 1 do, 1 must be fallen low indeed.” 

And the proud beauty had burst into tears, which seemed 
to gush upward from her very heart; such tears as she had 
never shed before. 

And now, as she sat beside him, in Mrs. Oollingwood ’s open 
barouche, with her face half hidden by the white lace parasol, 
she felt that it was happiness only to listen to his words, and 
feel the magnatic charm of his presence. Opposite to them 
were seated Blanche Oollingwood, a handsome, somewhat ijassee 
young lady, who was beginning to be rather a by-word at Sara- 
toga, as a baffled husband-hunter — and Musard Falkland, to 
whose energetic efforts it was chiefly owing, that the hand- 


46 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


some young Englishman had been persuaded to join the party 
at all. 

“ Why should 1 go?^’ he had demanded impatiently when 
Falkland first broached the question; “ What do I care for 
your Silver Spouts and your chattering young ladies?^^ 

“ Are you going to retire into a cave for the rest of your 
life?^^ good-humoredly retorted Falkland. “ And all because 
the unknown enchantress resolutely keeps herself in the back- 
ground? Because if you are, there is a very nice one close to 
the Silver Spout. A cave, I mean, not an enchantress.'” 

‘‘ Nonsense!” said Branchley, without looking up from his 
book. 

“ Old fellow, look here,” said Falkland. “ You are mak- 
ing yourself ridiculous. ” 

“How?” . ' 

“ J3y moving around generally and striking attitudes, like 
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. If yoiP re going to become a 
recluse, do so, in Heaven^s name; but as long as youh-e in the 
world, do behave as if you belonged to it.” 

Branchley meditated a moment or two, and then answered, 
sharply: 

“ 1^11 go this once, Falkland, to oblige you; but I will thank 
you to make no more engagements for me. I shall probably 
leave Saratoga in a week or so.” 

For Basil Branchley was beginning to despair of the dearest 
object of his life — the tracking out of the mysterious object 
of all his thoughts and fancies. 

“Oh, Mr. Branchley,” cried out Blanche Colhngwood, 
affectedly, as they climbed in a sort of Indian file up the steep 
and narrow glen, where solemn pines and cedars whispered 
overhead, and drooping ferns hutig over the silver thread of a 
tiny stream that went leaping down the moss-mantled stones, 
“isn't this a sweet place? Surely you never saw anything 
lovelier than this in your English glens.” 

At the top of the hill a rude cabin iiad been constructed 
close to' the^ beautiful little sulphur spring which threw its 
showers of silver into the air, under a rustic summer-house — 
a Silver Spout itself. And here from behind an un painted 
pine counter were dispensed questionable cigars, bottled soda, 
stale buns and lemonade to any visitors who might choose to 
23atronize the establishment. 

“ You’re not going to poison yourself Nyith one of those 
cigars?” questioned Falkland, as Captain Despard advanced 
toward the “ Kef reshment Saloon,” as it was ostentatiously 
labeled, while the ladies of the party were gathering ferns. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 47 

drinking the spring water, and wondering in what direction 
the mysterious cave was situated. 

“Yes, I am,^'’ said Despard. “Jessup says there is a 
pretty girl behind thp counter, if one can only get a glimpse 
at her/^ 

He came back presently. 

“ I\e ordered lemonade for the party,'^ said he in a low 
tone to Miss Colling wood. “ It’s worth the money to see the 
little dove-eyed beauty who sells cigars, three for a quarter. 
She’ll bring it presently; just wait till you see her.” 

“Is she really so pretty?” said the fair Blanche, rather 
superciliously. 

“ Never saw such a face in my life,” said Captain Despard, 
enthusiastically; “ and only to see her being ordered about by 
a fat woman with a wart on her nose, and a baby. Hush! 
Not a word. Here she comes now.” 

And Basil Branchley, glancing carelessly up from his task 
of endeavoring to mend Miss Collingwood’s broken parasol, 
found himself to his infinite sur 2 :)rise looking into the deep 
hazel eyes and rosy conscious face of — Undine herself. 

“ Good heavens!” he cried, starting to his feet, the ivory 
fragments of the parasol falling to the ground. 

But Dora Beck was not at all discomfited; she made him a 
low courtesy and held out the glass of lemonade. 

“ Please to take it,” said she. “ The rest are waiting, and 
Mrs.. Meadows will scold me dreadfully if I don’t hurry back 
for another tray full of glasses.” 

“Is this another masquerade?” said he, detaining her for 
an instant. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Dora, dimpling all 
over. 

“ Before you go, you must tell me who you are.” 

“lam Theodora Beck.” 

“ And what are you doing here?” 

“ How curious you are,” said she, with a little shrug of the 
shoulders. “ 1 am attending counter for Mrs. Meadows, to 
be sure. ” 

And she passed on with the lemonade to Gertrude Bavenel, 
who sat just beyond on the trunk of a fallen tree. 

But Miss Ravenel’s woman’s eye had taken note of Dora’s 
radiant blushes and Basil llranchley’s earnest gaze — and a 
vague consciousness that he never looked or si^oke to her in 
that manner stung her to the heart. 

“Do you know this young girl?” she asked him, almost 


48 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 

> 

sharply, as she motioned away the lemonade and its pretty 
Hebk’' 

“ I have met her once or twice/^ he answered. 

“Oh/’ said Gertrude Ravenel, coldly, “I supposed you 
were old friends. ” 

Mr. Branchley rose, with a look of serene content upon his 
face which Miss Revenel had never before seen there. 

“ Don’t you think we have sat here long enough?” said he. 
“ Shall we walk down toward the carriages?” 

And Gertrude took his offered arm, with downcast eyes and 
a heart as heavy iis lead. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“it would never do.” 

“ And now tell me all about it,” said Mr. Branchley, ear- 
nestly. 

“ There is nothing to tell,” said Dora Beck, indifferently, 
as she stood beside the Silver Spout, dipping her fingers co- 
quettishly into the spray. 

“ Miss Beck?” 

“Well.” 

“ I suppose you will think I am flattering you if 1 tell you 
what an impression you have made upon me — how much I 
have thought and dreamed about you since that night when 
Undine carried away my heart in the tangles of her water- 
lilies and grasses?” 

“ It sounds very like flattery,” said Dora, demurely. 

She had watched Basil Branchley disappear through the in- 
terlacing boughs of the whispering old pines that morning with 
a pang at her heart; she had been so absent and heedless of 
lier duties behind the counter, ever since, that Mrs. Meadows, 
the proprietress of the enterprising establishment, had scolded 
her until she cried, and when, at sunset, she had seen the tall 
figure reappear outlined darkly against the crimson west, and 
had jumped at once to the conclusiojjgthat he came to see her, 
it had seemed like a new dawn of l|^e and happiness. And 
she stood there now, as beautiful as a young goddess in her 
faded calico dress, her^ bright hair shining in the warm light, 
her cheeks tinted with the loveliest rose, listening to his words, 
and thanking Providence in her s^ret heart that Mrs. Meadows 
was putting the baby to bed in the back room of the tiny 
house, and that there were no customers for cigars or lemon- 
ade just them. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


49 


“But it is not flattery/^ said Mr. Branchley, growing more 
and more infatuated as he looked down uj 3 on this pretty 
flower-like young creature. “1 am really interested in you. 
I want to hear what strange fate has brought you here, of all 
places in the world. Will you not confide, freely and openly, 
in me, as if I were a brother?’^ 

Dora Beck looked up into his frank, kind eyes, and felt the 
frost-work of reserve melting in her heart. She was so solitary 
and alone, poor child ; she had so yearned for some one to 
talk to. 

“ You won’t betray me,” said she, “ to Joanna, I mean, 
and Beuben, and my grandfather?” 

“ Betray you? Nay, you surely can not think so ill of me 
as all that.” 

“ But promise!” pleaded Dora. 

“ I swear it!” 

“ Then I will tell you,” said Dora, and in her innocent, 
girlish way she related the whole story; the quarrel with Jo- 
anna ai^d her grandfather; the stolen expedition to the Sara- 
toga r^es, and its unexpected termination; the refuge to 
which she had been driven under the wing of Susan Soper. 

“ It all came of itself,” confessed Dora. “ Ojie thing right 
after another; it didn’t seem as if I had any will or power of 
my own at all. Do you think it was fate, Mr. Branchley?” 

“ Everything is fate,” said Basil Branchley, gravely. 

“ So I found the pretty dress hanging up in Miss Kavenel’s 
wardrobe, and I put it on, just for fun — and 1 had that dear, 
delightful evening, when 1 danced with you, and every one 
took me for a lady. AYas it wrong?” 

“ It was a little injudicious,” admitted the partial judge. 

“ 1 don’t see how,” said Dora, pouting her cherry lips. 
“ But of course, when I heard that Susan’s mistress was com- 
ing home, I knew 1 couldn’t stay where 1 was; and the cham- 
ber-maid at the hotel, who was a very nice girl, was acquainted 
with Mrs. Meadows, and knew that she wanted a handy young 
girl to attend the counter and take the money, and I thought 
that anything was better than going back to Joanna. And 1 
like it pretty well here, though it’s lonesome at times,” add- 
ed Dora, with a sigh. “But, in the fall Mrs. Meadows is 
going to open a railway restaurant at Troy, and of course it 
will be a deal livelier there!” 

“ Livelier” repeated Mr. Branchley, blandly. 

“More company, you know,” explained Dora.' “And 
higher wages.” 

Basil Branchley instinctively recoiled at the words. With 


50 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


his old-established prejudices, aristocratic upbringing and 
fastidious fancies, the idea struck him like a blow. It was 
almost as if one had brought the divine Venus di Milo to serve 
behind a counter, or hung the purest of all Kaphaers Ma- 
donnas in a gallery of gaudy colored jirints. 

“ A railway restaurant,^' repeated he. 

“ Yes," said Dora, with conscious pride. “ Quite on a large 
scale, you know." 

“ ]3ut you do not mean that — " 

“lam to be shop-girl,'" said Dora, radiantly. “ To attend 
the customers, you know, and keep the place tidy!'’ 

“ Dora," said Branch ley, with an effort, “ this is no place 
for you." 

“ Why not?" said Dora, innocently. “ Mrs. Meadows is 
very kind, when she isn’t in one of her cross turns, and — " 

“ It is no suitable place for a lady!" persisted Branchley. 

“ But I'm not a lady," said Dora, regretfully; “ I'm only 
a working-girl. Oh, there comes a party up to see the SilVer 
Spout, and there isn't a drop of soda-water off the ice. 1 
must run for Mrs. Meadows, quick." 

“ No, " said Basil Branchley to himself, as he walked down 
the wild ravine paths in the twilight, “ it was a dream — a mere 
baseless dream — and I must rouse myself at once. It would 
never do." 

And his thoughts went back to Branchley Manor, in the far- 
off English dales; to old Sir Beginald, with his white hair and 
straight features and perfectly shaped hands;, to Lady Brancli- 
ley, his mother, whose soft, gracious manners would have done 
credit to a princess; to all his friends and associations and 
connectious, so widely separated from a girl like Dora Beck. * 
And he repeated to himself, more definitely still : 

“ No, it would never do." 

It was just a week afterward that Musard Falkland met his 
friend at the ticket-office of the New York depot. He had 
seen very little of him of late, but there had been a vague 
rumor circulated about the village, which he did not at all like 
—a rumor that Mr. Branchley went every day to visit the Sil- 
ver Spout. 

“ Halloo, Basil!" said he, in the off-hand manner in, which 
every man veils a deeper feeling, “ so you are really here?" 

“ Where should 1 be?" said Mr. Branchley, examining his 
change before he deposited it in a Russia-leather pocket-book. 

“Why," laughed Falkland, a little constrainedly, “we 
didn't any of us know whether you hadn’t eloped with the 
pretty priestess of the Silver Spout." 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 51 

Basil Branchley lifted his blue gmve eyes, and looked Musard 
Falkland full in the face. 

“ What induces you to make such a remark as that?^^ said 
he, coldly. 

“ Don^t be vexed, old fellow,"' said Falkland, dropping his 
tone of badinage, and laying his hand on the other's shoulder. 
“ But you know it really had an odd look— your romantic de- 
votion and the girl's pretty face, and all that sort of thing. 
And if I were you I would just break it olf at once." 

“ Would you?" 

“ Yes. It may come a little hard just at first," reasoned 
Falkland; “ but you know it must be. A summer's flirtation 
is a summer's flirtation, and nothing more— and^ the heir of 
Branchley Manor has his own future to consider." 

“ Your advice is no doubt judicious and well timed," said 
Basil Branchlev, quietly, “but unfortunately it comes too 
late. I was married to Miss Theodora Beck this morning!" 


^ CHAPTER IX. 

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM. 

“ There he comes now!" 

And Mrs. Basil Branchley, who had been perched in the 
broad window-ledge which overlooked the silver shining ex- 
panse of that loveliest of all sylvan sheets of water. Lake 
George, sprung lightly down, and ran to meet the advancing 
footsteps of her husband. ^ 

She was as radiantly lovely as ever, with her golden masses 
of hair put up in French “Coils and puffs, and fastened by a 
filigree silver conib, while her dress, a princess wrapper of 
rose-colored cashmere, was edged with silver braid, and secured 
at the slender waist by a heavy silver cord and tassels. Dia- 
monds glistened on her fingers and shone like sparks of fire m 
her ears, and a large antique fan of pearl and satin swung by 
a fillet of white ribbon from her side. The transformation 
was complete: Cinderella was changed into the prince's bride 
—and yet there was an expression in the dimpled, child-iike 
face which.told that Dora Beck, even at the summit of all her 

hopes and aspirations, was not quite happy. ^ n i i 

At least there had been, before that magic footfall had 
sounded in the carpeted corridor of the great hotel on the 
shores of Lake George. It was all sunshine now, as she flew 

into Basil Branchley's arms. , , ,, . . , 

“ Well, little one," said he, lightly, so you are glad to 


52 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Glad!’^ she echoed, pushing back the flossy, golden ten- 
drils of hair that drooped over her fair low forehead. “ Oh, 
Basil, I thought you were never coming 

He smiled, evidently gratified by the open joyousness of the 
welcome accorded to him. 

“ Does the time then pass so heavily said he. But you 
might have amused yourself by reading.'’’ 

“ I hate reading,” said Dora, with a pout. 

Mr. Branchley sat down on the low divan, and, drawing her 
gently close to him, took up an open volume which lay among 
the silken pillows, with a sprig of sweet verbena placed within 
it for a mark. 

“ Couldn’t you interest yourself in ‘ Borneo and Juliet 
he asked, caressingly. 

“ Horrid, stupid stuff!” said Dora, shrugging her pretty 
shoulders up nearly to a level with her ears. Branchley’s face 
clouded over slightly. 

“ But everybody likes Shakespeare,” said he. 

“ No, they don’t,” said Dora; “ / don’t!” 

“ And ‘ Romeo and Juliet ’ is the sweetest love story in the 
world.” 

“It’s ridiculous trash!” said the bride. “Love, indeed! 
Who ever heard of people making love to each other in poetry? 
Why, I can’t understand what half of it means, and the other 
]|llf 1 don’t care for.” 

“ But, my darling,” reasoned the young husband, “ that is 
the very reason 1 want you to read Shakespeare and cultivate 
your taster little. Don’t you remember, last week, how you 
were obliged to confess to Mrs. Abelle that you never had heard 
of Shylock when they were all talking of the ‘ Merchant of 
Venice ’?” 

Dora gave her curls a saucy backward toss. 

“ Well, what then?” said she. “ I dare say 1 know lots of 
things that Mrs. Abelle never heard of. ” 

“ Yes, but, Dora, I like my wife to comprehend what the 
rest of the world is talking about. ” 

“ We had no books at home,” frankly confessed Dora, ex- 
cept ‘ Family Receipts ’ and ‘ Barnes’s Commentaries.’ And' 
I never cared to read.” 

“ But, to oblige me, dearest,” urged the young husband, 
“ will you not try to love this grand old author?”. 

“ Do you mean Shakespeare?” 

“ Of course.” 

“ No, I won’t!” pronounced Dora, resolutely. “ I hate 
Shakespeare!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


53 


Aud, taking up the book, she threw it out upon the lawn, 
where it alighted in the center of a clump of glossy-leaved 
laurels. 

“ There, said she, looking up into her husband ^s face with 
a saucy smile that woke half a dozen charming dimples into 
existence, “ 1 wonT be teased about it any longer.^’ 

Mr. Branchley^s brow darkened with momentary anger; he 
bit his lip to repress the quick words, and then he turned his 
face gravely away, releasing the ring-sparkling little hand 
which he had. held. 

But Bora was not to be repulsed thus. She climbed into 
his lap, like the child she was, and taking his face in her two 
hands, tiiriied it around so that she could look up into his eyes. 

“ Are you vexed with me, Basil?^^ said she. “ And all be- 
cause 1 canT get interested in an old fudge who lived a thou- 
sand years ago.^^-’ 

“ Not vexed, Theodora, only grieved.’^ 

“ Oh, dear!'’’ said Bora. “ Now youT-e going to be cross 
and grumpy. You’re always grumpy when you say The — o — 
do — ra in that way. And I shall not stay with you any 
longer.” 

She caught up a delicate little muslin hat, all lace puffings 
and bows of pale-pink ribbon, and was turning away when 
there was a knock at the door. 

“ Tl\e laundress, ma’am, please, with the Swiss dresses and 
scarfs,” announced the chamber-maid, and Bora, \vho was 
always intensely interested in the details of her toilel), turned 
back at once to inspect the contents of the heaping basket. 

“ Take them out, Louisa, and" lay them on the bed,” said 
she to the chamber-maid — our -little Bora had learned to give 
orders right royally. 

” My goodness me, Mrs. Hopper,” to the laundress who 
stood courtesying by, “ do you call these dresses done up?” 

“ 1 thought they were very nice, ma’am,” stammered the 
woman. 

“ They are not, then,” said Bora, angrily. “ And you may 
just take them back, and iron them over again!” 

“But, ma’am—” 

“ You hear me, don’t you?” said Mrs. Branchley, irn- 
jieriously. 

“Yes, ma’am; but it’s guite impossible to — ” 

“ Bon’t tell me what’s impossible and what isn’t impossi- 
ble,” said Bora, lifting' her clear treble voice above the laun- 
dress’s monotonous accents. “ / know as well as you do. I 
used to iron just such dresses as these, when I worked with 


54 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


my sister, for the ladies of the Grand Union Hotel at Sara- 
toga. If I did up one I did up a hundred — and I should have 
been ashamed, yes, positively ashcmed with a stamp of her 
foot, “ to send out such a specimen of vvork as that jiink lawn 
with the Torchon lace frills. 

You, ma^am!’^ said the laundress, staring, while the 
chamber-maid peeped over her shoulder with a face of eager 
curiosity. 

“ Yes, I,’’ said Mrs. Basil Branchley. “ And IVe many a 
time — 

“ Theodora!’^ Mr. Branchley had risen and advanced into 
the midst of the fray, with a crimson spot on his cheek, ‘ ‘ 2)ay 
the woman and send her away.’^ 

“I wonT!^^ said Dora, indignantly. “For such work as 
that 

“ Take your things and go,^^ said Mr. Branchley, imperious- 
ly, handing the woman a gold piece — and she obeyed without 
a word. 

And Louisa, the chamber-maid, hurrying down-stairs, has- 
tened to announce to a select circle of ladies^-maids and 
“ upper servants below, that it was quite true as the rich 
young Englisher had made a runaway match of it with a serv- 
ant-girl, for she’d, heer her say with her (Louisa’s) own ears 
as how she’d washed and ironed more’n a hundred dresses for 
the ladies at the Grand Union Hotel at Saratoga. 

In the meantime, Mr. Branchley took his child- wife quietly 
by the hand and led her back to the sofa. 

“ Dora,” said he, “ I think you are demented.” 

She Jerked her hand angrily away. “ What’s the matter 
now?” said she. “ What have I said?” 

“ Do you want all Lake George to know of your ante- 
cedents?” 

“ Why shouldn’t I?” flashed out Dora. “ What is there 
to be ashamed of?” 

“ Nothing; but one doesn’t relate one’s whole life and ad- 
ventures to every servant that comes along.” 

“ It’s every word of it true!” persisted Dora. 

“ Exactly; but it is also true that you are Mrs. Basil 
Branchley now, and that the old life is laid aside forever. 
Will you oblige me by referring to it as seldom as j^ossible?” 

“ You’re ashamed of me!” cried Dora, springing up, with 
scarlet cheeks and eyes shining angrily. 

“No, dearest, not ashamed; only anxious that you should 
learn to deport youtself properly in the new sphere to which 
you have attained.” 




LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


55 


“You knew 1 was no fine lady when you married me,” 
persisted Dora, pushing him away as he fain would have drawn 
her toward him. “ Why didn't you choose Miss Ravenel? or 
that conceited Flora Rivers! 1 didn^t ask you to marry me!’^ 

Mr. Branchley turned away in despair. “ Dora,^^ said he, ^ 
“ these fits of temper are more like a child than a woman. If 
you will not try to conquer them — 

But she had dashed out of the room with an angry, inarticu- 
late sobbing, before he could complete his sentence. 

Poor Basil Branchley! He had been mj^rried scarcely a 
fortnight, and he had already been made to j^bmprehend what 
a terrible mistake he had committed. He had wedded Theo- 
dora Beck in a moment of mad infatuation, and he \^s begin- 
ning to discover now that his fate had passed altogether out of 
his own hands; that he was tied for life to a vulgar, unedu- 
cated woman, with a temper which had never been curbed, 
and tastes as uncultivated as those of a South American In- 
dian. It was true that the angel face was there with its deep, 
magnetic eyes, its halo of golden hair, and the complexion 
like the satin petals of a blush rose — but, alas! how little that 
face corresponded with the character he had hoped to find. 
And yet she was laving and affectionate, too, by fits and starts, 
and he fancied that he caught occasional glimpses of a nature 
which might reward a husband's tenderest love. 

As he sat there, asking himself in a sort of despair whether 
it were really true, and not a fantastic dream, that he, the 
fastidious and haughty scion of a proud old English family, 
had really married this wild and untamed creature of the 
woods, she came in, all breathless and rosy, her hat swinging 
from one hand, her eyes glittering. 

“ Oh, I've had such a race," said she, “ down to the lake, 
with little Benny Horton. I beat him, though, but I've torn 
my dress and lost one of the pendants off my bracelets! And 
now I must get dressed to go boating with Captain Raymond 
and his sister. " 

Basil Branchley looked quickly up, with an objection on his 
lips, but he did not speak it. He shrunk from perpetual 
eludings and reproofs. Let her go this once; when she com- 
prehended the rules and regulations of civilized life a little 
more, she would be wiser. And, after all. Captain Raymond 
was a pleasant fellow enough. 

“ Dora," said he, “ wait one moment." 

She stopped and looked rather rather apprehensively at 
him. 

“ Well," said she, “ what is it now 


56 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


AViJl you grant me one favor?” 

“ As many as you please, if you’Jl only stop scolding me.” 

“ Then j)romise not to go out boating again with any gen- 
tleman without first consulting me.” 

Dora twisted her rosebud mouth into a comical grimace. 

“ Are you — jealous?” said she. 

“ Not jealous, dearest; only anxious to preserve my wife’s 
name from idle and injurious comment.” 

Mrs. Branchley walked off, with a toss of her head. 

“ Dear me, ’’-said she, petulantly, “if I’d known what get- 
ting married meant, I should have thought twice before 1 
took the fatal leap!” 

“ So should 1,” thought Basil Branchley, in the bitterness 
of liis li^U- 

Dora attired herself in a gaudy and inappropriate dress of 
lilac silk, profusely trimmed with black lace— for no entreaties 
of her husbmid had sufficed to induce her to accept the serv- 
ices of a maid, and the fastidious young Englishman was too 
often obliged to submit to see his wife decked out in incon- 
gruous finery, like a second-rate actress — and hurried aVay. 
While Basil Branchley sat down by the window that com- 
manded the view of the lake, and tried for the dozenth time 
since'^his marriage to write an account of it to his father, Sir 
lieginald Branchley. 

But he could not. Twice he made the attempt— twice he 
tore the sheet of paper into fragments and scattered them to 
the winds. 

“ 1 can’t do it,” he muttered to himself with a long shud- 
dering sigh. “ Not just yet, at least. 1 will wait until she 
is a little more formed and cultivated. They can’t help liking 
her when they see her;^ but to describe her would be to lose 
ihe cause at once; and in the meantime there is really no oc- 
casion to mention the subject at all; I hnow I have been a 
fool— but 1 do not want them to tell me so.” 

And he wrote his letter home without a word of allusion to 
the fact of his sudden marriage. 

He walked languidly down to the office, deposited his letter 
in the post-box, and then, taking up a newspaper, strolled out 
into the delicious pine groves at the north of the hotel, to read 
or muse, as the humor should chance. 

But he had hardly settled himself in a seat where the M\arni, 
balsamic air fanned his forehead like a touch of healing, and 
the blue sky glimmered indistinctly through the moving pine 
boughs overhead, when a clear high voice reached him, fioat- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


57 


ing across the water from a boat which was slowly being rowed 
shoreward— the voice of his young bride. 

“ Eight cents for that cigar. Captain Raymond she cried. 
“ They charged you a deal too much— they swindled you. 1 
know, because I used to sell them behind the counter at the; 
Silver Spout refreshment house, four for a quarter.'^ 

Basil Branchley started up from his seat as if some noxious 
insect had stung him. 

“ Good heavens he muttered between his set teeth. “A 
man of iron could not stand this !” 

And when Mrs. Branchley came up to her room, full of the 
adventures of the boating expedition, she found her husband 
engaged in packing. 

“ Oh, Basil,'’" cried she, “ what are you doing? Are you 
going away from here?"" 

“ Ypq 

Whmi?"" 

“ To-morrow morning. "" 

“ And the picnic to Fort Ticonderoga for Thursday, and 
the hop to-morrow night. Oh, Basil!"" pleaded Dora, in 
angry bewilderment. 

“ You will oblige me by having your things packed at 
once,"" said Mr. Branchley, with a tone of decision irom which 
she knew that there was no appeal. “ Perhaps you had bet- 
ter ring for Louisa, the chamber-maid, to assist you. "" 

“ I won"t go!"" said Dora, defiantly. 

“ Then you will remain here by yourself,"" said Mr. Branch- 
ley, coldly. 

And Dora sat down on the floor and burst out crying like a 
school-girl. 

“ Oh, I am so unhappy,"’ she whimpered, with her face' 
buried in the sofa pillows. “ And you are so c-c-cruel, Basil! 
Oh, I wish 1 had never got married!"" 

And from the very bottom of his heart, the young husband 
echoed her words. . 

“ You"re never contented anywhere,"" pouted Dora, as her 
first angry sobbings died away. You wouldn"t let me stay 
at Saratoga, though I should so have liked to queen it over 
Miss Ravenel and let Susan Soper see my new wedding-ring 
and elegant dresses, all ordered from New York."" 

“ Xpu don"t mean that you would have preferred to remain 
there said Mr. Branchley, in genuine astonishment. 

“Yea, I should!"" flashed out Dora. “But you dragged 
^me away without ever asking for my opinion."" 


58 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ A curious taste, to say the least of it,’" observed Basil, 
dryly. 

“Aud now,” went on Jdora, “just as I’m beginning to 
enjoy myself here and get a little acquainted. I’m to be car- 
vied off! 1 should like to know where we’re going now.” 

“ Traveling,” was the curt answer. 

“But where?” 

“1 have not quite decided yet. To the White Mountains 
first, 1 think; then down the St. Lawrence to Quebec and 
Montreal.” 

“ But can’t I stay until after the hop here?” 

“No!” said Basil Branchley. 

And Dora knew that he meant what he said. 


ClIAPTEK X. 

EAGLESCLIFPE HALL. 

“Have I got to live said Mrs. Basil Branchley, 

with quivering lip, and eyes full of tears. 

Eaglescliffe Hall was an old stone mansion, with curious 
hexagonal towers rising up from either side, all grown with 
ivy, and shrouded with the dark boughs of giant pines. It 
had stood empty for years; in fact, ever since the last of the 
Eagles had committed suicide in the lake, whose dark waters 
lapped the wall at- the foot of the lawn. It had been a fine 
old mansion in its day, with great echoing rooms, halls with 
magnificent arched ceilings, and casements of stained glass. 
There was a library, a billiard-room, and a ruined conserva- 
tory; the carpets were soft as moss, in quaint. Oriental pat- 
terns, and the floor to the main entrance hall was patterned 
in diamonds of different colored stone, with the death strug- 
gles of the Laocdon petrified into marble, in its center, instead 
of smiling Dianas or lovely Ariadnes. For old Edward Eagle’s 
taste was unlike that of the amateur in general. He had 
filled his empty conservatory shelves with a choice collection of 
rattlesnakes and serpents, proserved in glass jars of spirits; he 
had kept a hideous devil fish in an aquarium in the center of 
the library until the creature died — and his taste in statuary 
.inclined to the horrible in all its shai^es^sj He was a stealthy, 
self-contained old man, who had spent much of his time in an 
underground laboratory, experimenting on subtle poisons and 
unheard-of chemical combinations — a man who had neither 
friend nor relative in the world; and when he flually drowned 
himself in the black waters of ‘Eagle Lake, it was i^opularly 


LOVE AT SA^iATOGA. 


59 


supposed to be iu a fit of despair, because he bad exhausted 
the resources of his jars, crucibles and retorts. 

For two years Eaglesclifie Hall had stood empty, in spite of 
the enticing advertisements inserted in all the newspapers by 
the resident executor, which represented it as “ a superb resi- 
dence, with elegantly laid out grounds and every modern im- 
provement, with a fine view of Eagle Lake, and excellent fish- 
ing and shooting in the vicinity.'’^ But now, in the bleak 
month of March, when the snow-drifts lay piled up around the 
hexagon ' towers, and the lake was fast bound in fetters of 
glistening steel-blue ice, Eaglescliffe Hall had been rented, 
furnished, by a young couple, whose name was inscribed on 
the agent’s books as Mr. and Mrs. Basil Branchley. Servants 
had been sent from Albany, with instructions to air and open 
the house, and see that it was put in thorough order for the 
reception of the new occupants, and a liveried groom had 
brought down a carriage, pony phaeton, and horses to match. 
And, really, when the great sunshiny windows were opened, 
and fires were roaring up the wide- throated chimneys, Eagles- 
. cliffe Hall assumed a very different, and more habitable 
aspect. The furniture, it was true, was very old-fashioned, 
but it was sumptuous and splendid iu its way. The carpets 
were dim and faded, but they had every one of them bee\i im- 
ported from Paris, and there was old brocade and Gobelin 
tapestry in the house, which would have sent a curiosity-col- 
lector half mad with joy. The pictures on the walls were rich 
and rare; the old china dragons that grinned from the carved 
.mantels were historic gems, and there were bronze vases- on 
tali pedestals in the hall, which bore the undoubted stamp of 
Benvenuto Cellini himself. 

But our little Dora’s tastes had not been educated up to this 
point. She would have preferred gaudy Wilton velvet, satin 
^damask and bright new flower paintings on the walls; she 
hated solitary spots, and turned with a shudder from the views 
of pine glens, lonely hills and frozen lake, which aroused her 
husband’s artistic rapture. 

She was as beautiful as ever, in.a^lack velvet dress trimmed 
with silver fox fur, a black ostrioli plume trailing down over 
her golden curls, and a seal jacket^buttoned around her slen- 
der figure— and Basil Branchley ’s eye rested upon her with 
fond admiration as he opened the heavy carved door which led 
into a great sunny room furnished in'warm wine color, with a 
bay-window filled with azaleas, daphnes and , hyacinths in 
bloom, an open cabinet piano, and a fire of pine Ibgs blazing 
on the broad marble hearth. The curtains of wine-red silk 


LOVP: at SARATOGA. 


Of) 

were looped away to let in the dazzling Marcji sunshine— a low 
sofa was drawn up before the fire, just within the folds of an 
antique Japanese screen of sandal wood and illuminated satin. 

“ This is your boudoir, Dora,J' said he. “ 1 chose it my- 
self. How dfo voii like it?’^ ^ 

“1 think it"s horrible,’" said Dora, looking petulantly 
around her. And a little dog too. I hate little dogs,” as 
a silky King Charles spaniel came bounding to meet the party. 

Basil’s countenanpe fell. “ 1 thought she would please 
you,” said he. “ Her^Mab-^little MabI” and he stooped 
to caress the exquisite little animal. 

“ I never could bear dogs,” said Dora. “ And flowers, too; 
dear me, how oppfessive they make the atmosphere of the 
room. Don’t close to the door. Miss Maydew, please,” to a 
pale, rather subdued-looking young lady in deep mourning, 
who had followed them into the room. ^ “ It’s hob enough to 
roast one, with this great roaring fire and the sun pouring in. ” 

Mr. Branchley rang the bell. 

“ Here,” said he, to one of the servants who promptly re- 
sponded to the summons, “ take this dog down to the house- 
keeper’s room and tell her to keep it there. Mrs. Branchley 
does not like dogs. ” 

And he left the room. 

“ There,” said Dora, flinging her hat into the middle of 
the floor, and tearing apart the' fastenings of the seal jacket 
with fingers that, trembled with vexation, “ he has gone away 
angry. Just because I don’t like nasty little barking brutes 

of dogs.” .Ill, 

Miss Maydew came up to her- to assist her with the' cloak. 

“ I do not think Mr. Branchley is angry,” said she. 

“ But 1 Jc 7 imb he is,” cried Dora, petulantly. “ Miss May- 
dew, don’t you ever get married. Married girls are wretched. ” 

“ There is no danger,” said Miss Maydew, smiling sadly. 

“No, not so much of course,” said unconscious. Dora. 
“ You’re not very pretty, you know, nor very young; but still 
people who are even less attractive than you do get married.” 

Miss Maydew crimsoned and bit her lip. “ Will you come, 
into your own room?” said she, “ and rest a little before 
dinner?” 

I suppose so,” unwillingly Assented Mrs. Branchley. 

Perhaps I’ll lie down a little if you will read to mo out of a 
story book, so that 1 can go to sleep.” 

“ Shall I not finish that beautiful description out of ‘ Para- 
dise Lost ’?” 

“ No!” cried Dora, imperiously. “ 1 won’t have that 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


61 




stupid heathen poetry crammed down my throat just because 
Basil orders it!’"’ 

Six months had elapsed since the impromptu marriage at 
Saratoga which had merged the lives of Basil Branchley and 
Theodora^Beck; six months which have been mostly spent in 
traveling through the cities of the United States. Dora had 
asked her husband, impatiently enough, why ho did not take 
her to England. 

“ Perhaps I shall — whdn the time arrives,^^ he had an- 
swered, rather evasively. f 

“ But noio said Dora. “ 1 should like to see the^aiior, 
and Sir Keginald, and my lady. And I am curious to know 
what they will think of me.” 

Basil Branchley instinctively recoiled from the idea. 

“ Some time,^' said he. 

“ But why not now?^’ urged Dora. 

“ It does not suit with my arrangements just at present,’^ 
he answered, gently. “ My little wife must have patience. 

Dora had enjoyed the months of travel well enough, but she 
was restless and uneasy, like most women who are utterly 
without mental or intellectual resources, and could not be' 
contented long in any one place. But when Basil announced 
his intention of settling permanently down on the shores of 
Eagle Lake, not far from Albany, she was overwhelmed with 
indignant amazement. 

“ A lonely house in the country,^^ she cried, bursting into 
tears. 

“ It need not be lonely, Dora,^^ reasoned her husband. “ I 
shall be with you, and I have engaged Miss Edith Mayhew, 
from Albany, to be your companion. 

1 don’t want a companion!” cried out Dora. “ 1 won't 
have one!” 

“ She is a very accomplished young lady,” went on Mr. 
Branchley, “ whose society will do you good. And perhaps, 
in the quiet and seclusion of a place like that you will acquire 
the literary taste that you lack, and pick up some of the ac- 
complishments and womanly arts for which you have hereto- 
fore found so little time.” 

“ Why don’t you send me to boarding-school at once?” 
flashed Dora. 

“ I would, if I thought you would go,” responded her hus- 
band, smiling. 

“ 1 shall hate Miss Maydew, 1 know,” said Dora, bursting 
into tears. 

But when she saw the gentle, pallid, dove-eyed girl wdio \vas 


02 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


to share the solitudes of Eaglescliffe Hall with her, even 
capricious Dora could not but like her. Miss Maydew was 
entirely without relatives, and compelled to earn her living as 
a governess; and although she had at first hesitated to assume 
the situation as “ companion to a young married lady of neg- 
lected education, ^Hhe liberal salary offered had finally induced 
her to accept it, and when she saw what a wild, impulsive 
creature this Mrs. Basil Branchley was, she made u];) her mind 
that the task would not be so difficult, after all. 

“ She is nothing more tlLj|,n a beautiful child, Miss Maydew 
had thought. 

But Miss Maydew had not comprehended how difficult it 
would be to control even a child, were that child indued with 
the passions of a woman, the ungoverned temper of a wild 
leopardess. And, during the long weeks at Eaglesclifl’e Hall, 
she began to realize that she was earning her salary by the 
hardest toil. 

“ But, Mrs. Branchley,^^ argued Edith, one spring after- 
noon, when Dora was carelessly flinging sprays of lilac blos- 
soms into the lake, “ you hayen^’t read a page of this ‘ His- 
tory of England 

“ No,^^ answered Dora, indifferently, “ I know it."’ 

“ And Mr. Branchley .was so sure you would like it when he 
brought it from Albany a week ago.” 

“ He ought to know that I detest those horrid prosy books,” 
I'etorted Dora, sitting with her dimpled chin in her hands, 
and staring out over the blue, glittering plain of waves. 

“ You talk like a child!” cried Edith, despairingly. 

“ I ain a child,” laughed Dora. “ I am not seventeen yet. 
How old are you. Miss Maydew?” 

“ I am eight-and- twenty,” confessed Edith, after hesitat- 
ing a moment or two. 

“ And you are very accomplished, and have read every- 
thing, and know how to play on the harp and the piano?” 

“ My education has been very elaborate,” said Miss May- 
dew, with a sigh. 

“But what good has it done you, after all?” saucily de- 
manded the young wife. “ Here you are a hopeless old maid, 
while I, stupid little goose that I am, have got a liandsome 
husband. What do i want of big dictionaries, anfi^ poetry, 
and piano exercises? 1 tell you 1 won't be educated!” 

“ But perhaps your husband will love and admire you still 
more if you can sympathize with his intellectual self,” argued 
Edith. ^ 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 63 

“ That’s nonsense I” su^ Dora, carelessly. “ There he is 
now— 1 must run and meefliim!” 

And she flew off down the avenue of pines like a magnified 
butterfly, while Edith Maydew watched her through a mist of 
gathering tears. 

For Edith was alone in the world, and the contrast of Basil 
Branchley’s affectionate devotion and his young wife’s unques- 
tioning faith in him was trying, at times, to the solitary gov- 
erness who fought her daily battle with existence, and looked 
for no quarter from the world. 

But, in spite of the taunts which Dora so liberally flung at 
Miss Maydew, she^vas not quite certain but that Basil Branch- 
ley would lore her a little better if she were as accomplished 
as that young lady. Like most uncultivated creatures, Dora 
was acutely sensitive to the influences of jealousy, and it was 
only the night before that she had noticed that her husband 
and Miss Maydew had lingered long upon the lawn after she 
herself had taken refuge in the drawing-room. 

“ What have you been talking about?” she demanded, 
sharply, as her husband entered the low French casement at 
last. He looked at her with some surprise. 

“ Of you, dearest,” he answered her. 

1 don’t believe it!” she cried, petulantly. 

“But it is quite true, Dora. We were talking over some 
system of education which — 

“ Education! education!” pettishly repeated the spoiled 
child. “ I’m sick of the very word. And 1 wish you would 
send Miss Maydew away. ” 

“Send Miss Maydew away! My dear Dora, you have no 
idea of how much we should both miss her.” 

“ I shouldn’t,” said Dora. “ You might, perhaps.” 

Mr. Branchley turned away, and took up the newspaper 
with the expression which would sometimes come over his face, 
when her flippancy angered him more than usual, and which 
Dora called his “ frozen look.” 

She cast a glance of half-subdued triumph at Miss Maydew, 
however, on this particular afternoon, when she passed by 
leaning caressingly- on Basil’s arm, which poor Edith, who 
knew nothing of the medley of emotions at work in the young 
wife’s heart, did not at all comprehend. 

It was later in the day when Dora came down-stairs, dressed 
in white grenadine, with white roses in her hair. The sun was 
mirroring his last level light in Eagle lAike — the shrubbery on 
the lawn was bathed in crimson radiance, and, by the rosy 
brightness, she could see Edith Maydew seated in her plain 


64 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


black dress on a rustic seat, under the old pine-tree, near the 
water, with Basil leaning earnestly over her. Both were talk- 
ing in low, intent voices; both were quite unconscious of any 
other presence than their own. 

The hot crimson rose to Dorans cheek. She closed her 
small white teeth firmly on her lower lip, and stood observing 
them for a second, and then she turned and went back into 
the house. 

“ I see it all,^^ said Dora to herself. “ Oh, fool! blind fool 
that I have been!’^ 

She walked up and down the floor of old Edward ESgk^s 
conservatory, now all blooming with tropical plants, vines and 
blood-red roses, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed on 
the one little opening among the leaves without, through which 
she could observe the unconscious group upon the.-lawn. And 
when at last Mr. Branchley turned away, and walked slowly 
down the long pine avenue which led to the deep woods on the 
shores of the lake, she hesitated not a moment, but, flinging a 
light scarlet shawl over her dress, went out to the rustic seat 
where Edith Maydew still lingered, watching the broad ribbon 
of sunset quivering over the crystal surface of the lake. 

“ Miss Maydew,"*^ said she, in a low, peremptory voice, “ you 
must leave this house. 

Edith started up in surprise. 

“ Mrs. Branchley she cried. 

“Yes, Mrs. Branchley, repeated Dora, in a taunting voice. 
“ Although you and my husband seem to have forgotten that 
there is such a personage as Mrs. Branchley in existence. 
Leave this house, I say, and at once!^^ 

Poor Edith shrunk from the glittering eyes and. face of 
scarcely repressed anger. 

“ I wonT have you making love to my husband under my 
very eyes and nose,^^ went on Dora, growing momentarily 
more excited and less self -con trolled. “ No, I wonT! Go, I 
say. Why donT you go? If youYe waiting for your wages, 
there they are!'’ 

And she filing her purse on the grass at Miss Maydew's feet. 

“ Mrs. Branchley," pleaded Edith, in an agony of shame 
and embarrassment, “ won't you let me explain?" 

“ I'll let you explain nothing," cried Dora, impetuously. 
“ I understand enough already— ay, and too much. “ Will 
you go, or must I call the servants to put you off the 
grounds?" 

Half an Hour afterward, when Mr. Branchley came in to 
dinner, he looked with some surprise at Miss Maydew's empty 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. G5 

chair, for Edith was generally the most punctual member of 
the family. 

“ Where is Miss Maydew?"’ asked he. 

“I’m sure 1 don’t know,” Dora answered, inditferently. 
“ Probably abou^ half-way to Albany by this time.” 

“You don’t mean that she has — gone?” 

“ Yes, I do!” calmly assented Dora. 

“ And for what reason?” 

“Because I sent her away!” cried out Dora, passionatel 3 ^ 
“ That^s the reason. Because 1 wouldn’t have her any longer 
in the place — a simpering, hypocritical — ” 

“ Theodora!” Branchley glanced warningly at the servant 
in waiting. 

“ I don’t care,” exclaimed Dora. “ I won’t bo silenced 
like a naughty child! I tvill speak!” 

“ Bromer,” said Mr. Branchley, quietly, “ leave the room.” 

And reluctantly enough Mr. Bromer obeyed. 

“ Now, Theodora,” said Basil, in a low, grave voice, “ will 
you oblige me by telling me what all this means?” 

“ It means,” cried Dora, half suffocated with rage, “ that 
I have seen you making love to that woman long enough!” 

“Hush!” said her husband, sternly. “Say what you 
please of me, but do not dare to speak an aspersing word of 
one so good and true as Miss Maydew!” 

“ Have you 7iot been making love to to her?” 

“ Never!” Mr. Branchley answered. 

“ Has she not maneuvered in every possible way to attract 
your attention; to place herself in your way?” persisted Theo- 
dora. 

“ She has never thought of such a thing.” 

“You are in league together!” exclaimed Dora, wildly. 
“ Oh, I wish I dared to drown myself like old Edward Eagle! 
I wish — ” 

Her husband rose from his seat and came toward her, tak- 
ing both her hands in his. 

“ Theodora,” said he, “ you are half mad with jealousy and 
evil temper. Since you can not comprehend the goodness and 
purity of a nature like Miss Maydew’s, you certainly are in- 
capable of understanding hovv entire and undivided is my love 
for you. But listen, Theodora. I have made my last endeavor 
to alter your nature from what it now is.” 

“ If you didn’t like me just as I am,” sobbed Dora from 
behind her pocket-handkerchief, “ why did you marry me?” 

He clasped one hand over his eyes, with a low sigh that was 
almost a groan. 


6G 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Ifc is a question which you have every right to ask me/’ 
he said, sadly. “ God forgive me that 1 know not how to an- 
swer it.' But for the future, we will let the jDast bury its 
past. ” 

“ And you won’t try to educate me any more?” with a 
grimace at the obnoxious word. 

“ No,” he answered, with a melancholy smile. 

“ Nor bore me with prim, precise, old maid companions?” 

“No.” 

Dora’s face brightened up again, as she stole her hand 
softly into Basil’s. 

“ Then, Basil,” whispered she, “you — you wei-e not really 
flirting with Miss Maydew?” 

“ We were trying to devise a plan which would interest you 
a little more in the history of your own country,” answered 
Mr. Branchley, coldly. “ But rest in peace; 1 shall devise no 
more plans, good, bad, or indifferent.” 

Dora looked timidly up; she knew that she had been wrong, 
but she had not the moral courage and resolution to ask his 
pardon at once. 

“ Basil,” was all that she found courage to say, “ will you 
kiss me before you go?” 

He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead, but Dora 
felt instinctively that an impalpable something was gone 
from the caressing tenderness of his manner. And when the 
door had closed behind him she threw herself on the sofa and 
wept the bitterest tears which she had ever shed in her life. 

For passionate, artful child though she was, she loved Basil 
Branchley dearly, and she shuddered to see the shadow of her 
own pride and temper rising darkly up between her and his 
love. But even as she shuddered she cried out 2 )ersistently : 

“ I can’t help it! 1 can’t help it! lie never should have 
married me if he can’t love me as 1 am!” 


CHAPTER XI. 

SELLING FLOWERS. 

There were ^Deriods in this phase of Basil Branchley’s life, 
in which he was fain to ask himself, in perplexity of spirits, 
whether he had married a child or a woman. For Theodora 
was so sweet and winning at times, so exquisitely feminine, 
that the old infatuation revived itself and he felt that fame, 
future, and all were well lost for the sake of the beautiful 
young wild flower that he had gathered from the plains of 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


67 


Saratoga. And then, almost in the twinkling of an eye, her 
moods would change, and she would be transformed into a 
petulant, passionate child, a vindictive young tigress, whose 
temper knew no curb nor limit. 

Of the commonest elements of an ordinary English educa- 
tion Mrs. Basil Branchley was quite ignorant. She could read 
and write, it is true, and had somehow acquired, at the dis- 
trict school of her childhood, some vague idea of other things. 
But beyond this, she knew little, and cared less about the arts 
and sciences; nor could all her husband^’s efforts avail to in- 
duce her to cultivate the neglacted garden of her intellect. 

Why should I read?’^ said she, “when I don^’t care 
whether Queen Mary cut Charles the Second '’s head off, or 
Oliver Cromwell put down the French Kevolution? What are 
all the stupid old dead and buried people to me? Why should 
I practice on the piano and study hVench wits, when I’m not 
going to be a teacher or a governess? No, 1 won’t. I’d a 
deal rather swing in the hammock under the Balm of Gilead- 
trees, and sleep!” 

But these moods of Theodora’s life were summer calm as 
compared with those in which the ungoverned passions of her 
tempestuous nature would rise up in absolute tornadoes. And 
jealousy, the green-eyed monster, was wildest of all. 

She was looking through her husband’s coat-pockets one 
day for a pocket-handkerchief whose exquisitely embroidered 
initials she had some vague design of copying, to fill up the 
time which hung so heavily on her hands, when a letter with 
the English postmark fell out— a letter directed to “Basil 
Branchley, Care Messrs. Oviatt & Vane, Albany, N. Y.,” in 
a delicate penciled handwriting. 

“ It’s from his mother,” said Dora, aloud, as she held it 
up, scrutinizing it with an earnest glance. “ Now 1 do won- 
der what she says of me. ” 

For the capricious young bride had never believed her hus- 
band’s avowal that he had not as yet ventured to disclose his 
sudden love-match to his English relations. 

“ Of course he has told them,” Dora reasoned within her- 
self. “ And of course they’re in a towering rage about it, and 
he don’t care to tell me. But he’ll have to after a little— or 
else I’ll find it out for myself. Basil shall have no secret from 
me.” 

And so, with the utmost deliberation, Mrs. Basil Branchley 
sat down on a low velvet divan in the window, and opened the 
letter, quite oblivious of all those overstrained considerations 
of civilized life which render it almost an act of treachery to 


68 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


glance at the contents of a letter intended for another’s 
perusal. 

As she did so a photograph dropped out — the photograph of 
a beautiful dark^eyed brunette, with coils of jetty hair wound 
around a small aristocratic head, features straight and regular, 
and a mouth whose short, curved upper lip gave an expression 
of hauteur to the whole face. The head was slightly inclined 
forward, the lips were apart, as if in a smile, and the large 
dark eyes seemed almost -to flash upon Theodora’s astonished 
gaze. 

“ That isn’t his mother!” cried Mrs. Branchley, with red- 
dened cheeks, and eyes full of passionate scintillations. ‘ ‘ llow 
dare he keep another woman’s photograph in his pocket? 
But I’ll be at the bottom of his secrets, or I’ll know the rea- 
son why!” 

And, opening the folds of the scented lavender paper, wdiich 
bore a twisted cipher in lavender and gold at the head of the 
page, Theodora devoured its contents with tremulous intensity. 

It was a gay, chatty letter, full of details of tbe far-away 
English home which Basil Branchley had not seen for so long, 
containing playful allusions to peoj^le and places which the 
young American wife had never heard 'mentioned, with here 
and there an expression which might almost be interpreted as 
affectionate, and it was signed, ‘‘Your ever faithful Au- 
gusta.” 

Flinging the envelope on the floor, she caught up the photo- 
graph which had fallen unheeded in the folds of her dress, and 
rushed at once to her husband’s study, Vvhere Mr. Branchley 
was yawning over the morning newspaper, which had just 
arrived in the Albany mail. 

“ Basil!” cried she, passionately, “ who is this?” 

He recoiled slightly from the suddenness with which the 
fair brunette’s photograph was thrust between his face and 
the “ Daily Argus.” 

“ Who is this?” he repeated, gravely, and not without some 
dawning shadow of anger in his deep-blue eyes. 

“ Yes, who is it? Tell me quickly, for I will know!” 

“ Tell me first where you got it!” 

“Out of this letter. In your coat-pocket,” gasped Dora, 
with quick, eager accents. “ Basil, who is ‘ Augusta’? How 
dare she write thus to you— another woman’s husband?” 

“ And you have been reading my private correspondence, 
imsanctioned by any permission of mine?” 

“ Of course 1 have!” flashed out Dora. “ Why shouldn’t 1?” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


69 


lie looked at her in utter despair, at the obliquity of her 
moral ideas. 

“ Theodora,” said he, “ give me that letter.” 

“ I won’t!” said' Dora. “ Not until you tell me who Au- 
gusta is. 

“ She is Lady Augusta Trente, my mother’s dearest friend.” 

“ How old is she?” catechised Dora. 

“ About twenty, I should think.” 

“ Is she in love with you?” 

“In love with me!” repeated Mr. BranChley. “ My dear 
Theodora, what nonsense you are talking.” 

“ Then why does she sign herself, ‘ Your ever faithful Au- 
gusta?’ ” 

“ Because we are old friends, I suppose.” 

“ And why does she send you her picture?” 

“ For the same reason, most probably.” 

“ Does she know you are married to me?” 

“ She does not.” 

“ And what business has she writing to you?” 

“ My dear Dora, don’t you think you have interrogated me 
sufficiently?” asked Basil, with a scarcely perceptible lifting 
of his brows. 

“ 1 ivill be answered!” cried Dora, imperiously. 

He took her gently by the wrist and set her aside as she 
pressed against his chair. 

“ I think you are forgettiug yourself,” said he. “ Give me 
my letter.” 

By way of answer, Theodora tore letter, photograph, and 
all, in a score of pieces, and flung them on the floor. 

“ There!” cried she, in a choked voice, “ are you answered? 
Do you understand, now, what it is to anger me P Go back to 
your Augusta! Tell her that the American girl with whom 
you amused yourself for awhile has drowned herself in Eagle 
Lake, and stands no longer in your way!” 

And, springing out of a low French casement, which opened 
on the lawn, she was gone. 

But, in a second, as it were, Basil Branchley had overtaken 
her, and seized her in his strong grasp. 

“ Theodora!” cried he, “ are you mad?” 

“Yes, mad!” she answered, struggling to free herself. 
“ That is the very word! Maddened by my husband’s infidel- 
ity — by his cruel treatment!” 

“ Will you listen to reason?” he said, almost angrily. 

“ Keason! A man’s idea of reason /” 

. “ You are laboring under a great misapprehension,” said 


70 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


he. “ Lady Augusta Trente is an old friend of mine. We 
grew up together as boy and girl. She has always correspond- 
ed with me, and she knows of no reason now why the habit of 
a life-time should be discontinued. There is nothing whatever 
in her letters which my wife need be afraid to peruse. 

“ Has she been writing to you ever since we were married?’^ 

“ Of course; why should she not?’' 

“ Because I will not permit it!" cried out the impetuous 
young wife. “ Tell her you will receive no more of her small 
coaxing letters. " 

Branchley turned sadly away. 

“ Theodora," said he, “ this jealousy is as degrading to me 
as it is unworthy of yourself." ^ 

“ Then why do you keep our marriage a secret?" she cried 
out. “ Why do you keep me in a solitary hole like this? 
Oh, Basil, there is only^one road out of this troubled laby- 
rinth. Take me to your English home, and present me there 
— as your wife!" 

Mr. Branchley shrunk visibly from this idea, and Theodora 
perceived it. 

“You are ashamed of me," she said, with rising color and 
eyes that glowed vividly. 

“ Not that, Theodora," said he, “ but — " 

“ Ashamed of me, that is it," she repeated, stamping her 
fittle French boot on the lawn. “ Oh, 1 wish you never had 
married me. I wish you had left me at the Silver Spout to 
be happy in my own way!" 

And for a moment Basil Branchley almost wished that he 
had. 

But the sparkling torrent of tears with which Theodora's 
passion resolved itself melted his susceptible nature at once. 

“ My own darling," said he, taking her caressingly in his 
arms, “ do not talk in that wild way. You know that 1 love 
you. Where is the use of breaking your own heart and mine 
with words and looks like this?" 

Her wild mood softened a little at the tenderness of his 
voice and words. 

“ And you are quite, quite sure that Lady Augusta — " 

He interrupted her gently. 

“ My darling," said he, “ if it will do you any good, I am 
ready to assure you that I never cared for Lady Augusta 
Trente, except as a brother mi^ht care for a sister." 

“ But, Basil, she loves you /" 

“ That's nonsense, Dora." 

“ No, it is not," said Dora, lifting her tear- wet face to his. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 71 

“ I can see it in every line she writes. She loves you — and 
she means to make you love her. And oh, Basil, if — 

“ Little one,"^ said Mr. Branchley, with a smile, “ we are 
making tliis affair altogether too important. Lady Augusta 
Trente is not worth all this discussion, and in the meanwhile 
we are losing this delicious cool morning. There is the boat 
moored under the willows. Get your hat, and I will take you 
for a row on the lake.^^ 

So the storm blew over; but after this Basil Branchley was 
more circumspect as to what he did with his correspondence, 
and there was, at times, a strange, wistful look in Dorans face 
when it was lifted to his that the young husband scarcely com- 
prehended. 

She did not understand him. She loved him, truly and 
deeply, in her wild gypsy way, but she felt that there was a 
sealed door within his heart, to which she had never yet ob- 
tained the key — and to Dora, whose motto was “All in all, 
or not at all,^’ it was a strange sad mystery. 

But she was gentle and less exacting in her ways for awhile 
■ — and just as Basil Branchley was beginning to congratulate 
himself that she was losing the stamp of her wild, fantastic 
girlhood, he was plunged again in the deepest depths of de- 
spair by an occurrence which too completely convinced him 
that Mrs. Basil Branchley was in nowise different 'from Dora 
Beck. 

“ Basil, said Dora one morning, “ you are not going to 
Albany to-day?” 

“Yes, 1 am. Why not?” 

“ It's the day of the county fair,” said Dora, “ and 1 wane 
to go. ” 

“ My dear child, you had better not,” said Basil, with an 
annoyed look. 

“ Why shouldn't 1 go?” said Dora, with wide-open eyes of 
surprise. “We always went to the county fairs, Joanna and 
I, when 1 lived at Saratoga. It was such fun.” ^ 

“ It is hardly the place for you,” said Mr. Branchley, with 
half -concealed disgust at the idea. 

“ But I tuant to go,” repeated Dora, as if this fact settled 
the whole question at once. “ And I've got my new blue silk, 
just finished, and such a sioeet little hat, with blue forget-me- 
nots and a pearl dagger fastening the loops of ribbon down. ” 

“It is quite out of the question, Theodora,” said Mr. 
Branchley, decidedly. “ Even if I could be at home to escort 
you, I should disapprove of the crowd and bustle of such a 


72 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


place. And as I am compelled to go to Albany on busi- 
ness — 

“ Oh, that don^t matter,’^ said Dora, eagerly; “ Paul Mav- 
erick and his sister are going, and I can go with them.’^ 

Basil's brow darkened. Mr. Pauf Maverick was a dashing 
New Yorker, who had rented the place next to Eaglesclifte 
Hall for the summer months — one of those vulgar, ostenta- 
tious men who seem, as it were, to be veneered with an outer 
crust of society manners, while below they are of the very 
commonest grain — and his sister was a handsome, overdressed 
young widow, from whom Basil Branchley instinctively re- 
coiled— a Mrs. Ledwich, whose grammar by no means matched 
her diamonds. 

“ Excuse me," said Branchley, “ I prefer that you should 
not." 

“ But I told them 1 would go." 

“ I shall send Bromer to tell them that you have changed 
your mind." 

“ I will go!" said Dora, setting her small white teeth to- 
gether. 

“ I do not think you will," said her husband, calmly. 

But all the day long, his business occupations were oddly 
checkered with the recollection of Dora's set teeth and beauti- 
ful, defiant face, and although he did not seriously believe 
that she would actually disobey his wishes, he nevertheless re- 
joiced at finding himself able to leave Albany in an earlier 
train than he had expected. 

“ She will be lonely, poor child," he thought, “ and I will 
take her for a drive out toward Crescent Falls." 

But no Dora ran joyously out to welcome him when he 
reached the grim portals of Eaglescliffe Hall. 

“ Where is Mrs. Branchley?" he asked the servant to whom 
he flung the reins of the light dog- cart in which he had driven 
over from the station. 

“ I don't know, sir," the man answered with a curious 
t\^tch at the corner of his lips. She left here, sir, at eleven 
o^ock, and she told Mrs. Hefierns, sir, as she shouldn't be 
back to lunch. " 

“ Did she go in the carriage?'* 

“No, sir, on foot!" 

“ In what direction?" 

“ I didn't see her go, sir," said the man, “ but Giles, the 
coachman, sir, he says she's at the county fair." " 

Branchley bit his lip. 

“ Nonsense!" thundered he. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


75 


Selling flowers, sir, and dressed up in a regular masquerade 
fashion, added the man, striving to conceal a smile by pass- 
ing his hand obsequiously over his mouth. 

“ Let go the horse’s head!” shouted Mr. Branchley — a 
voice which the man never forgot — and driving the steed so 
swiftly as seriously to jeopardize the life and limb of the 
groom, he drove headlong out of the great stone gates again. 

“If she has done this thipg,” muttered Basil Branchley to 
himself, “ I will never forgive her!” 

It was scarcely more than a two-miles’ drive to the county 
fair grounds — a drive along a hot and sunny stretch of road, 
but Basil Branchley scarcely noticed the blinding clouds of 
dust in the oppressive heat of the sultry September afternoon; 
indeed, he scarcely paid sufficient attention to his driving to 
escape the wrath of the local police, as he dashed into the 
flower-garlanded entrance of the fair grounds. 

There, close to the gates, was the open carriage of the 
Mavericks, drawn up in the center of a little crowd, with, Mrs. 
Ledwich occupying it, in a toilet of pale-green moire antique 
and black lace and a gaudy lace parasol held up between her 
eyes and the sun. 

“ Oh, Mr. Branchley,” she said, with a little titter, “ who 
thought of seeing you. We thought — ” 

“ Where’s my wife?” he asked, hoarsely. 

“Just yonder,” said Mrs. Ledwich, indicating with the 
carved point of her parasol a group a few rods away. “ Paul 
is with her — you needn’t be a bit afraid — and really the dear 
thing does it capitally. Such a splendid idea; one would think 
she was born to be an actress.” 

Mr. Branchley’s spirited horse dashed among the crowd in 
a manner that scattered it to the right and left, and in little 
more than a second he had checked him close to a slight fig- 
ure dressed like a country-girl, with a broad-brimmed straw 
hat^ and a basket filled with tiny bouquets of hot-house blos- 
soms. 

“ Flowers, sir? Flowers?” she cried out, in a sweet, saucy 
accent, holding up a spray of heliotrope and red carnation to 
him, while Mr. Paul Maverick’s loud laugh followed on her 
words like an echo. 

“Theodora!” exclaimed Basil Branchley, in a deep sup- 
pressed voice. 

She thre!':” back the hat, revealing a flushed lovely face, and 
eyes glittering half with mischief, half trepidation. 

“ Didn’t I tell you I should be at the county fair?” said* 
she. “ And only see how much money 1 have got?” 


74 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


She held up a little box of small coins as she spoke. Mr. 
Branchley sprung from the carriage. 

“ Get in!’^ said he, briefly. 

“ Am I to go home?^^ questioned she. 

“Yes.^^ 

“ But I haven't sold half my flowers/' remonstrated Dora, 
in a sort of mad bravado. 

In another instant she found herself seated in the dog-cart 
beside her husband, the basket of flowers flung on one side of 
the carriage, the box of small coins on the other, while a gen- 
eral scramble among the children, itinerant traders, and beg- 
gars testifled their delight at the arrangements. 

Mr. Maverick stared blankly after the disappearing equipage. 

“ By Jove!" said he, “ what a deuce of a temper the fellow 
has got!" 

Mrs. Branchley glanced rather timidly up at her husband’s 
face, as they drove swiftly along. 

“ Basil," said she, venturing at last to break the dead 
silence, “ are you angry with me?" 

“ Angry!" he repeated, despairingly; “ yes, and angry with 
myself!" 

“ But I've done no harm," she declared. 

“ Do you think not?" 

“ It was only a frolic," she persisted. “ Mr. Maverick and 
Mrs. Ledwich, both said there was no possible harm in it." 

“ Mr. Maverick and Mrs. Ledwich," repeated Basil Branch- 
ley, in accents of infinite disgust. “ They have certainly 
proved themselves excellent judges of good taste and delicacy. 
Look here, Theodora, if ever you disobey me again — " 

“ 1 am not a child, to be ordered!" burst out Theodora, 
indignantly. 

“Listen!" thundered the husband; “if ever you forget 
again what is due to yourself and me, I will not promise to 
bridle my temper as 1 am doing now. All 1 have to say is — 
beware!" 

And looking up into his flashing eyes and passion-clouded 
face, Theodora began dimly to comprehend lhat deep down 
in her husband's heart there was a volcano of repressed emo- 
tion, whose full outburst even she, reckless and fearless as she 
was, could scarcely dare to brave. 

But she took refuge in the oft-repeated and sullen platitude: 

“ 1 have done no harm." 

And what puzzled and grieved the young husband most of 
all, was that she actually seemed to be quite unconscious of 




LOVE AT SARATOGA. 75 

the sin against good taste and refinement of which she had 
been guilty in the flower-selling masquerade. 

“And this is the woman 1 must present at Branchley 
Manor as — my wife!^' Basil told himself with a cold chill at 
his heart. 

Nor was it strange, under all these circumstances, that he 
still kept intact the secret of his marriage, and lingered on 
at Eaglescliffe Hall, dreading any change, yet aware all the 
time that this state of things could not endure forever. 

“ 1 have made my bed,^^ he told himself, doggedly, “ and 
1 must lie upon it. ’’ 


CHAPTER XII. 

“you will never see me again. 

The smooth-shaven lawn at Eaglesclifle looked very lovely 
in the slanting golden beams of the late October sun; the red 
leaves were showering down from beech and elm, at every 
breath of air; and the waters of Eagle Lake gleamed like a 
sheet of living sapphire. In the flower-borders standard roses 
were lifting their crimson and tea- colored turbans of bloom, 
and scarlet geraniums blazed like blotches of blood; the scent 
of ripening fruit in the grape-houses toward the south floated 
upon the senses, like a dream of some fair southern vineyard, 
and a stately nurse, in a white frilled apron and a Normandy 
cap was walking up and down the broad walk by the lake-side, 
wheeling a perambulator, in which, half hidden by coverings 
of rose-colored satin and Valenciennes lace, were enthroned 
two lovely twin children of a year old. 

For pretty Dora, lying half asleep on a sofa in the south 
window, with a bowl on her lap and a Maltese kitten curled 
up on the skirt of her dress, was a mother now, child though 
she seemed — a mother, whose nature revealed itself in the 
wild, unreasoning tenderness and capricious changes of mood 
that one sees in a beautiful wild leopaj-dess or a mother-robin. 
She would lie in the sunshine and caress her beautiful babes 
by the hour together, murmuring soft utterances of idolatrous 
affection; she could scarcely endure to have them out of her 
sight, and was resentfully jealous of Marie, the French nurse; 
she was restless and unhappy if they preferred their baby toys 
to the light of her eyes and the musical murmur of her 
lullabys. 

“ They are mine,^^ she would say, again and again; “ they 
are Marie has no right to their love!"^ 


76 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


And she would sob her heart out, it ever her husband vent- 
ured to remonstrate with her on this jealous mood. 

She was lying in the balmy sunshine on a brilliant blue and 
scarlet afghan, whose folds were thrown over the sofa, her 
golden hair floating loosely back, her slender braceleted arms 
thrown, sultana fashion, above her head, while the open book 
had slipped to the floor, and the slumberous shadows weighed 
down her white eyelids on the dark limpid eyes, wlien the door 
opened and Basil Branchley came hurriedly in with an open 
letter in his hand, and his face very pale. 

She looked up pettishly. 

Why do you disturb me, Basil said she. “I had just 
fallen asleep, and — 

“ Theodora, said he, heedless of her words — indeed it is a 
question whether he had even heard them — “ 1 have just re- 
ceived a telegram from England."^ 

“ From Eng] and Dora sat up with deepening color, and 

a face of sudden interest.* “ Oh, Basil 

“My father has been thrown from his horse in the hunting- 
field and badly hurt; in fact,"^ added Branchley, with a troubled 
face, “ they tell me that it is not possible that he can live. 1 
must go home at once. 

“ Home,^’ repeated Dora. “ Do you mean — ” 

“I mean to Branchley Manor, of course."’^ 

\ “ To Branchley Manor,"’ ^ echoed Dora. “ Oh, I am so 

glad! 1 shall see your English home at last!^^ 

And springing to her feet to the great discomfiture of the 
Maltese kitten, she danced about the room, her golden hair 
falling about her like a glitt(3nng cloud, her cheeks flushed 
with the loveliest carmine.i ^ . . . 

“ Theodora, you forged. yqnrseill!,’V, said Basil, sternly. “ Is 
this an occasion for childish folly 
' . Dora stopped short. - 

“ You are always scolding pre,^' said she. “ But I forgot 
r ^ about your father being sp ill; though, of course, old people 
^ must expect to die! And how soon must we be ready to 
r!.' start 

“You are not going at all, Dora,^^ said Mr. Branchley, 

! gravely. “ My journey must be alone. 

“ Alone !’^ 

The young wife recoiled from his words, with an incredulous 
expression on her face. 

^ ' “ Yes, alone,^^ he repeated. “ It is absolutely necessary to 

travel night and day. Not a second of time must be lost. 
Joanna is already packing up my things. The carriage will 


LOVE At SARATOGA. 


77 


be at the door in five minutes to convey me to the railway 
station. My dearest Dora, do not look so heart-broken; you 
must perceive the utter impossibility that you and the chil- 
dren could be hurried off at a moment’s notice. And after 
all, remember that it is only for a short time that we shall be 
parted. ” 

The light of nngoverned passion had sparkled into Dora’s 
eyes — she repulsed the hand that would have taken hers. 

“ You —ashamed of us!” she cried, almost in a shriek. 
“ You will not take me to your English home!” 

“Dora!” 

But she had burst from the room in a white heat of rage. 
Mr. Branchley followed her at once to the apartment in 
which she had taken refuge like a hunted animal driven to 
bay. She was kneeling on the floor with her face hidden in 
the cushioned depths of a Turkish easy-chair, and her silken 
robes surrounding her like glistening billows. 

“ Theodora — my darling!” he whispered, stooping down to 
bring his face to a level with hers, and endeavoring to lift her 
up. But she spurned him away with^a wild motion of the 
arm that was almost a blow. 

“ Theodora,” he reiterated. 

Still she did not speak or stir; but he could see, from the 
wild heavings of her chest, the storm that was convulsing her 
whole frame. He glanced with a perplexed air at his watch; 
the precious moments were ebbing fast away; the horses which 
waited to convey him to the station were pawing the graveled 
walk without, and he knew well that the New York express, 
like time and tide, waited for no man. It was quite impossi- 
ble that he should lose this steamer; and yet how could he 
leave Dora thus? 

“ My dearest — my own wife,” he urged, “ remember that 
this must be the moment of our parting. Give me one good- 
bye kiss — bid me good-speed with one smile for me to remem- 
ber until I see you again. ” 

She started up, tragically beautiful in her tears and di- 
sheveled golden hair. 

“ You will never see me again,” said she, ih a low, thrill- 
ing voice. 

“ Dora, for God’s sake, don’t talk so!” he uttered, receding 
a pace or so. 

“You are going to Lady Augusta,” she cried. “ Yes, you 
are,” as he would fain have spoken. “ Do you think I am 
blind and deaf? Do you think I am a baby to be deceived? 
I have amused you for a little while, but you are tired of me 


78 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


now, and you are going back to your high-born English 
beauty. Be it so. But,’^ she paused a second to catch her 
hysteric breath, with one hand pressed tightly over her heart, 
and the other lifted in the air; “ you must choose between her 
and me, for you will never see me again 

“ Dora, my darling,^ ^ he pleaded^, “ try to be reasonable; 
you must see that 1 am compelled to go alone. And as soon 
as matters are in any way decided, I will come, or send for you 
and the children.'’^ 

She looked scornfully at him. 

“ What is the good of making promises like that which you 
never intend to keep?^^ said she, the contemptuous words 
stinging him to the quick. 

“ Theodora,' ’ said he, “ for what, in Heaven's name, do you 
take me? Is it necessary for me to assure yoii, in so many 
words, that I am neither a villain nor a swindler?" 

“ ‘ Men are deceivers ever,' " she quoted, with a forced 
laugh. “ Ah, you were right about that wearisome Shake- 
speare of yours; het/oe^ say things in bitter words that one can 
find for one's self. ‘Men are deceivers ever.' And how 
should I expect you to be in any way different from the rest? 
But don't stay wasting your time here. Go to Lady Augusta 
Treute. 1 know very well that 1 am not worthy to wipe the 
dust off her feet. And 1 shall still have the children — our 
children." 

J ust then the servant knocked at the door. 

“ If you i)lease, Mr. Bfanchley," said he, “ Giles says you'll 
have a tight scrape of it to catch the four-o'clock train." 

“ Dora, my darling," pleaded the young husband, passion- 
ately, “ will you not tell me good-bye? Will you not give me 
one .last kiss?" 

“ I will never kiss you again," she utters, hoarsely. 

He stepped forward and tried to take her in his arms. She 
pushed him away. 

“You have made your choice," said she, “and now you 
must abide by it." 

With an unutterable agony in his heart, Basil Branchley 
walked away. 

“ How can 1 leave her so?" he asked himself in the bewil- 
derment of his contending emotions — and even after his foot 
was on the carriage step he turned back and hurried to the 
room where he had left his young wife. 

The door was locked. 

“ Dora!" he called out, “ Dora!" 

But no answer was returned; and in five minutes the car- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


79 


riage was being borne swiftly along the smooth and level road 
between Eaglesclilfe and the nearest railway station which 
would enable him to reach the Albany junction. 

Poor Basil Branchley! He felt literally as if his heart were 
being torn in twain. He felt all a song’s affectionate duty 
toward an honored and revered parent; he loved his young 
wife with the deepest earnestness of a man^s heart. To leave 
J3ora thus cut him to the heart, and yet there was no alter- 
native. And, through it all, there was the bitter conscious- 
ness that it was to a great degree his own fault. He had sown 
this wind ; he was now reaping the whirlwind. 

“ Would to Heaven,^’ he declared over and over again, in 
the silence of his own soul, “ that I had had the moral cour- 
age boldly to avow my American love match, with all its com- 
plications, at the very outset. My father would have been 
deeply angered, but he loves me, and 1 should have been for- 
given; my friends would all have cried out with one voice, 
and it would have created a nine-days’ scandal as such things 
always do. But the thing would have been done, and I should 
have breathed freer. I should not have been compelled to de- 
spise myself for my own cowardice, nor would this bitter cup 
of suffering have been held to my unwilling lips. But, blind 
fool that 1 was, I allowed myself to procrastinate and linger 
on — and now that it is neither the time nor the place for such 
revelations, 1 am driven to look my own folly in the face.” 

A noble nature is rarely as generous to its own deficiencies 
as to those of others — and in Basil Branchley’s eyes, his con- 
duct seemed simply unpardonable. And as he sat leaning 
back on the cushioned seat of the palace car, with his hat 
drawn down over his eyes, and his arms folded on his breast, 
Theodora’s face of white unreasoning anger haunted him like 
a visible presence through all the lagging hours of that dreary 
night ride. While, in the weary and torturing dreams that 
overshadowed every attempt at slumber, her utterance sound- 
ed in his ears like the solemn echo of a prophecy: 

“ You will never see me again.” 

And yet he never once thought of the possibility of those 
mad words being fulfilled. He pondered over her with a sad 
and pitying tenderness, as a loving parent pities the little child 
who beats the air in a burst of futile passion; his aching heart 
pictured her, as she sat with her infants, alone- and desolate, 
until the moisture stood on his eyelashes, strong man though 
he was. 

“ Poor little Dora, poor undisciplined child,” he thought. 


80 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ God comfort her! God keep her until I can claim her in 
the eyes of earth and Heaven as my own.'*'’ 

And then there was the flashing of many lights in his eyes^ 
and the reverberating echo of the arched walls of the monster 
railway terminus, and Basil Branchley roused himself as if 
from a dream. 

“ Are we in New York already said he. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

DORANS REVENGE. 

For a few moments after Basil Branchley ’s receding foot- 
falls had died away upon the carj^eted corridor, Dora stood 
quite silent, in the middle of the room, her face pallid with 
passion, her eyes shining like vivid stars. And then she heard 
the grating of carriage- wheels over the gravel, and knew that 
he was gone. 

Up to this moment she had entertained a vague idea that, 
at the very last, he would relent aiid yield to her wish to ac- 
company him; but now she knew how vain had been all such 
fancies, and the tide of anger swelled higher than ever in her 
heart. 

“ I will never forgive him for this!’"’ she uttered, aloud. 

1^0, never !” 

Mechanically she went to the window. There, under the 
swinging green pennons of the gigantic willows by the water- 
side, Marie, the Normandy nurse, was walking up and down, 
pushing the perambulator before her, and singing some mo- 
notonous little canzonet of her own country in the red glow of 
the sunset. Theodora^s face lighted up as her eyes fell on the 
children. 

“ They, at least, are mine!’^ thought she. “ And I will 
strike ruthlessly at him through them!^^ 

For Dora regarded neither law nor justice in the fevered 
height of her ungovernable temper. JShe only felt that she 
had been wronged and ill-treated; she only knew that she 
must be revenged; and in this moment of delirious imssion, 
all the love which she had felt for her young husband seemed 
turned to hatred. 

She rang the bell furiously. Bromer, the footman, an- 
swered it, with a speed commensurate to the imperious haste 
of the summons. 

“ Send Mrs. Hefferns here at once,'’^ said Mrs. Branchley. 

The man looked curiously at her. “ She's in one of her 
hopping tantrums, sure enough," thought he; but he answered. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


81 


subserviently, “ Yes, madame,^’ and hastened away. Mrs. 
Hefferns came, a white-haired, portly old English woman, 
who had been highly recommended from Albany to her pres- 
ent position. 

“ Mrs. Hefferns,^^ said Dora, “ I want you to pay all the 
servants and discharge them. 

“Discharge them, ma'am?’’ repeated the old woman, in 
amazement. 

“ I thought I spoke plainly enough,” said Dora. . “ Yes, 
discharge them. And then close up the house and send the 
keys to the agent’s, at Ballston.” 

“ But, ma’am — ” 

“ There’s no difficulty about the money,” said Dora, tak- 
ing a purse from the drawer of an inlaid rosewood cabinet 
which stood between the windows. “ I dare say you will find 
jfienty there — the bills were only settled last week.” 

“ It’s not about the money, ma’am,” said Mrs. Ilefiferns. 
“ But of course, the servants will all expect a month’s wages 
in the place of the month’s warning.” 

“ Give it to them, then. ” 

“ Y^'es, ma’am — of course. But my master bade me to tell 
you—” 

“ I want no last messages from your master!” broke in 
Dora, with a scarlet spot on either cheek. 

“ It’s only about business, ma’am, ’’persisted Mrs. Ilefferns, 
“ and please, if you’ll allow me to mention it, it’ll be off my 
mind — he bade me tell you that you are to draw on Mr. Oviatt, 
the Albany law-gentleman, for what money you needed while 
he was gone. ” 

“He need not trouble himself,” said Dora, haughtily. “ 1 
have all the money I need; and if I were starving, 1 would not 
touch his charity. ” 

Mrs. Hefferns stared. 

“ Do you hear me?” said Dora, with a stamp of her foot. 
“ Do as 1 bid you; but first send Marie to me.” 

Mrs. Ilefferns obeyed, not daring to remonstrate further. 

“It’s my belief, Mamselle Marie,” said she, after delivering 
her message to the nurse, “ as my young lady is going mad 
with pride and temper. And whatever induced my master to 
marry her I can’t tell, in spite of her pretty face.” 

Marie shrugged her shoulders, and leaving the children in 
charge of an under-nurse, who presided over the nursery in 
her occasional absences, hurried to attend Mrs. Branchley. 

“ Marie,” said Dora, “ 1 want you to pack up the chil- 
dren’s clothes. I am going on a journey with them.” 


83 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Yes, madame/’ assented the French woman. “ At what 
time am I to be ready?*' 

“ You are not to be ready at all," said Dora. “ You are 
not going." 

“ But, madame, 1 do not think Eunice — " 

“ Eunice is not going either." 

Marie opened her dark eyes. 

“But, madame — " 

“ Am 1 to be obeyed, or am I not?" said Dora, angrily. 
“ One would think you were all fools and idiots. Once for 
all, leave off questioning me, and do as I bid you!" 

“Madame, am 1 to remain here?" persisted Marie, who 
did not fancy the idea of. Englescliffe Hall deserted. - 

“You are to be discharged," said Dora, curtly. “ Do you 
hear? I have no further need for your services." 

Marie burst into tears. In her passive, undemonstrative 
way she was really fond of her little charges, and this sudden 
dismissal startled her like an unpleasant shock. 

“ Don't bore me with a scene," said Dora, whose heart was 
apparently like adamant. “ You tire me to death, all of you, 
and there is no time to spare. 1 want the children to be ready 
for the seven-o’clock train to-morrow morning." 

The house was in an unwonted bustle that night; lights 
glancing in all its corridors, servants hurrying to and fro to 
prepare for the closing of the establishment and their own 
abrupt departure. But long after the confusion had quieted 
down and all the weary servitors were in their beds, Dora was 
walking up and down the broad path on the shores of the 
lake, her white dress gleaming spectrally under the willow 
boughs, her large eyes shining fitfully in the starlight. 

She could not rest; and a wild, restless motion was all the 
relief which she could obtain. 

It was long past midnight when Marie, the nurse, started 
from her sleep, to see a slender white figure bending over the 
cribs in which the infant children lay. 

“ Holy Mary!" she ejaculated, feeling instinctively for her 
rosary beads, “ it is a ghost!" 

“Ho, Marie, it is not a ghost," said Dora, impatiently, 
“ it is only me. I— I wanted to look at the children before I 
went to sleep." 

“ They are resting quietly, madame," said Marie, in great 
surprise. 

Side by side the trim rosewood cribs stood, veiled in a cloud 
of white embroidered lace, looped back with blue ribbons. 
The pillows were covered with the sheerest India muslin, edged 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


83 


with delicate lace — the coverlids were of pale-blne satin and 
swan^s-down; and the little sleepers, as they lay there, were 
models of infantine grace and beauty. Walter, the boy, was a 
trifle the larger of the two, with his father's dark, curly hair, 
regular features, and long eyelashes, and Helen, the girl, had 
inherited the golden tresses, radiant complexion, and large 
dark eyes of her young mother. Walter lay quite still, like a 
beautiful marble statue of Sleep, breathing softly, and with 
regular respirations; but little Helen tossed her tiny arms and 
laughed and murmured in her sleep. 

For a moment or two, Theodora stood looking down on 
them with convulsed features, and a heart that throbbed pas- 
sionately. 

“ He does not love me," she thought, exultantly, “ but his 
whole heart is bound up in them. And through my children 
and his I shall be well revenged. " 

Before nine o'clock the next morning Eaglesclifle Hall was 
shut up once again, the servants were scattered far and wide, 
and the key of the old house was delivered to the astonished 
agent, who occupied a moldy brick house near the village of 
Ballston. The old gardener who lived in the basement, like 
a superannuated mole, had stared at the departing carriage, 
and called something -^ter it, which was lost in the rattling 
of the wheels. 

“ What does he say?" asked Dora, impatiently. Stop, 
Giles — he is running after us." 

The old man came up, breathless and panting, as the horses 
were momentarily checked. 

“My lady," said he, taking ofl his hat, so that the keen 
autumn wind blew the gray locks' to and fro, “ you left no 
directions about the letters." 

“ What letters?" said Dora, sharply. 

“ Any letters that may come for you." 

“ 1 expect none!" 

“ Yes, but my lady — " 

Dora tore a leaf out of her pocket memorandum-book; a 
gilded toy with pearl backs and scented leaves, and wrote the 
words: “ Mrs. Bates, Saratoga Springs, N. Y." 

“ There," said she, “ 1 have told you that I expect no let- 
ters; but if any come, you may send them to that address. 
They will reach me." 

And so the carriage whirled through the great stone gate- 
posts of Eaglescliffe Hall, and Theodora's heart beat exultant- 
ly at the conviction that she was. leaving the past behind her. 
And as she looked back at the gray towers of the old house. 


84 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


with the two children lying in her lap, she murmured half 
aloud. 

“ 1 will hold to Ms lips the same cup of heart-sickness that 
he has made me drink 

It was late in the afternoon when a jolting old depot hack 
stopped at the dreary old house on the country road, where the 
half-dead Lombardy poplars yet lifted their tapering heads, 
and the dust-laden lilac bushes clustered around the kitchen 
door-stone. 

Joanna Beck had been hard at work all day. It was true 
that the Saratoga season was over, but Joanna had been lucky 
enough to secure the custom of a crotchety fine lady who had 
been ordered by her physician to remain at the Springs until 
November for the benefit of the healing waters; and Joanna 
had just laid the last snowy drift of collars and cuffs, lace-bor- 
dered handkerchiefs and delicately fluted fichus into a huge 
wicker basket, and was hanging over the kettle, preparatory 
to her evening cup of tea. 

“ It's a lonely life,'^ said Joanna to herself, as she set out 
the one cup and saucer, the half loaf of bread and the hunch 
of cheese on a little round table, and put a fresh stick of wood 
into the stove to make the fire burn brighter. 

For the old cushioned rocker by the fire was vacant now; it 
was a year and more since they had laid old Grandfather 
Beck to rest in the neglected little country church-yard, where 
all his forefathers had been buried since the days of the Pil- 
grims. Nor had the farm-house “ keeping-room grown 
fresher or more cheerful since the days when pretty Dora used 
to rebel so frantically against its grim formality and utter 
lack or ornament. The faded strips of rag carpet which bare- 
ly covered the boards of the floor were more faded still — the 
gaudy prints on the wall set Nature more at de^hince than be- 
fore; the ceilings were lower and more smoke-burned than 
ever, and the calico window curtains were faded in streaks 
where the sunshine had struck them. Whistle, the blackbird, 
was dead, but his empty cage still hung forlornly beside the 
casement, and the stunted geraniums which it had once been 
Dora's delight to tend and water, had been flung out into the 
dust heap long ago. For Miss Joanna Beck never had been a 
believer in the ornamental, and she had seen no reason of late 
to alter the tenets of her life. 

She was standing before the fire with one foot on the stove 
hearth, and her eyes fixed mechanically on the leaping flame 
which was visible through a crack on the cast-iron lid, wiien 


» LOVE AT SARATOGA. 85 

the sound of some vehicle, stopping at the door, startled her 
from her reverie. 

“ It^’s Iteuben HallowelFs man after them clothes, a full 
half hour before his time!'^ said Miss Joanna, fretfully, as she 
hastened to light a tallow candle and open the door. 

But to her amazement, it was not the one-horse lumber 
wagon in which Reuben HallowelBs man usually conveyed the 
baskets of newly laundried linen to the Springs, but a close 
carriage from the depot, with a trunk behind, which the hack- 
man was unstrapping as rapidly as possible. 

“ Hackman!^'’ screamed Miss Beck, “ hold on! It ain’t for 
here! There’s some mistake, hackman.” 

But the next moment a lady in a Rubens hat of dark-blue 
velvet, with a drooping plume, a dark-blue silk dress which 
trailed at least half a yard on the dusty grass behind her, and 
a glittering Oriental shawl hanging ih folds over her shoul- 
ders, came up the narrow path, with two sleeping children in 
her arms — children whose sumptuous dress and strange, start- 
ling beauty struck Joanna Beck with the odd sensation that 
she must be in a dream. 

“ Open the door, Joanna!” said a well-known voice in a 
low, peremptory accent. “ And take one of the children, 
quick; I have held them until my arms ache.” 

Mechanically Miss Joanna obeyed; and as she did so, the 
blue satin hat fell backward from the child’s face — it opened 
large wondering eyes of surprise, crying, “ Marie! Marie!” 

“ Theodora!” cried Joanna, “ what in the name of good- 
ness does all this mean?” 

And Dora, sitting down in the low chair before the fire, with 
the folds of her lustrous silk dress falling softly around her, 
and her golden hair shining faintly in the dusk, answered: 

“ Give me the baby, Joanna, and warm some milk for them 
as quickly as you can. It means that 1 have come to make 
you a visit. ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

BRANCH LEY MANOR. 

Of all the. stately ancestral homes of old England, none 
could present a fairer aspect in the level sunbeams of the early 
November sunset than Branchley Manor, situated in one of 
the most fertile vales of southern England, where the winding 
TJsk River embroiders the Monmouthshire slopes like a broad 
blue ribbon. The mansion Jtself was of cream-colored stone. 


86 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


half covered with creeping masses of ivy in black-green sheets, 
and climbing vines, while the deep porches with columns and 
overhanging finials of stone were all embowered in foliage. 
The brilliant casements were of deeply colored stained glass, 
and bore the stamp of great antiquity, both in tinting and de- 
sign — in fact, it was said that Branchley Manor House had 
originally been a Benedictine monastery, founded in the reign 
of VV^illiam Rufus, and the ancient chapel at the north end, 
with its antique stone roof, its huge oriel windows, and high- 
backed seats of black carved wood, boro out the truth of the 
rumor. The hall, a wide and superb entrance, with a stone 
floor, half hidden by strips of Turkey carpet, extended from 
the blossoming flower-garden at one side to the green lawns at 
the other, which sloped down in a succession of gentle terraces 
to the silver tides of the Usk — a hall with paneled ceilings, 
painted in gorgeous glimpses of Italian landscapes, and side 
walls hung with folds of deep crimson tapestry, which formed 
a rich relief to the life-sized marble statues which had been 
placed there, from time to time, by the art-loving members of 
the family of Branchley. The antique solemnity of this old 
stone hall, once trodden by the bare feet of grim Benedictine 
monks, was oddly contrasted on the south side by the airy 
brightness and beauty of Lady Branchley^s drawing-room, a 
superb apartment, all paneled in white and gold, with yellow 
satin hangings, a ceiling radiant with frescoed flowers and 
fruit, and furniture bearing the imprint of the London manu- 
facturer. From this apartment opened a boudoir, a morning- 
room and a conservatory, all connecting by arched door- ways, 
garlanded in painted flowers and buds on a groundwork of 
white enamel, and draperies of pale-gold satin, brocaded with 
white shells. For Lady Branchley had been a famous London 
beauty, and her wealth had helped to restore the ruined mag- 
nificence of the manor house, while her taste had remodeled 
and renovated many of the ancient rooms. And although the 
architects and antiquaries shook their heads, and talked about 
the “ unities and the “ fitness of things,"" Sir Reginald could 
not find it in his heart to deny the slightest whim to the beau- 
tiful young bride whose blue eyes lighted up the old place like 
a new lease of youth and sunshine. 

At the left of the hall Sir Reginald"s own apartments pre- 
served the character of the old house in their carved oak 
wainscoting, their floors of dark polished wood and the low 
ceilings whose massive beams seemed almost to touch the vis- 
itor"s head. The library was a great echoing apartment whose 
mullioned windows cast oblique reflections of gold and azure 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


87 


and blood-red on the floor; and from this opened the gray old 
chapel whose altars and chancel rail were carved in rare de- 
signs, brought from Venice, and whose walls were hung with 
tapestry of which the pattern had long since faded into a dull, 
indistinguishable brown. 

This was Branchley Manor House, and in an upper apart- 
ment, whose closely veiled windows opened toward the silver 
Usk, now all irradiated with the crimson radiance of a stormy 
November sunset, the dead body of Sir Keginaid Branchley 
had lain scarcely a week ago. 

He had died a death of startling suddeuness. A devoted 
adherent to the good old custom of fox-hunting, he had gone 
forth in the morning, overflowing with spirits, and calling 
back gay messages to his wife, and had been brought home in 
the night with his spine fatally injured by a fall from his 
horse. And before the alarmed family fairly realized that he 
was dangerously hurt, the physician came softly down into the 
room where Lady Branchley sat with clasped hands and pallid 
face, with a tall, slight girl at her side — a dark-eyed young 
beauty, with purple-black hair growing low upon her forehead, 
and full scarlet lips, like an Italian Fornarina. 
f Lady Branchley started to her feet. “ Oh, doctor she 
cried, “ is he better?’^ 

“Better?’^ The physician looked into her face with eyes 
of strange pity. “ My Lady Branchley, ’Hie said, gently, “ he 
is better. He has passed into the world where there is no 
more pain nor sadness. After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps 
well.” 

And Lady Branchley had fainted in Lady Augusta Trente’s 
arms. 

Alas, how sadly and slowly those first days of the terrible 
bereavement had dragged themselves away — the red sunrises 
that called people to a new remembrance of their bereavement; 
the gray dusks that seemed to wrap all the world in mourn- 
ing. And then had followed the stately funeral, with its sol- 
emn regalia of woe, and then the blank hush which is so sure 
to follow on the strained excitement of a scene like this. 

For nothing more could be done until the arrival of Sir 
Basil Branchley, the heir. 

The doors and windows were all wide opened on the lawn, 
this bland November afternoon, for the air was soft and balmy 
as May, the yellow sunshine lay like a mist of gold over the 
late garden blossoms, and the dead leaves which were drilling, 
drifting down everywhere, a rain of amber and crimson, 
brought with them no sense of sadness or decay. Julian 


88 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Braiicliley, the younger son of the deceased baronet, sat writ- 
ing in his lathery’s study — writing the formal mechanical let- 
ters to distant kinsmen and connections which are generally 
written on such occasions as this. He was singularly'unlike 
his brother — tall and dark, with a narrow chest, slightly 
stooping shoulders, a face like a swarthy Italian, and large 
near-sighted eyes, which were generally seen only through eye- 
glasses. It was not a pleasant faee, and yet one would be 
puzzled to tell what or where was the repulsive feature. Nor 
was Julian Branchley’s voice one which would inspire trust or 
confidence. It was low and soft, and exquisitely modulated, 
but somehow, throughout all, one caught the ring of insincer- 
ity. And it was a fact worthy of notice that, although J ulian 
Branchley had no enemies, neither had he any warm friends. 
As boys, he and his brother Basil had quarreled vehemently. 
The frank, straightforward nature of the elder had rebelled 
utterly against the subtle ways and overt treachery of the 
younger;, and although, as they grew to manhood, an external 
peace was preserved, there was an entire lack of the warm 
fraternal sympathy which alone can carry out the true idea of 
brotherhood. 

“ 1 dare say Julian’s no end of a good fellow,^’ Basil re- 
marked, indifferently, “ bujtjl never could understand him.^^ 

“Basil means well, 1 Sjiye no doubt,^^ Julian would say, 
“ but he has no idea whatever of diplomacy.^’ 

While Lady Branchley, sitting in the great, half-darkened 
drawing-room, tried to lose the recollection of her sorrows in 
the comforting pages of some devotional volume, lent by the 
neighboring vicar — without the least success, however; and 
Lady Augusta Trente glided to and fro, now arranging tea- 
roses in the cut-glass vases on the table, now pausing to look 
out where the sunshine slept in broad bands of gold on the 
close-shaven turf of the lawn, or refiected itself back in 
glimpses of sparkling sapphires from the Ilsk Kiver. 

“ Augusta, come here,’^ said Lady Branchley, laying down 
her book, and holding out a slim white hand, all the whiter 
from its contrast with the Jet bracelet on her wrist, and the 
deep crape bands of her hanging sleeve. She had been a 
famous beauty once; she was a handsome woman still, with a 
face like her son Basil’s, bright brown tresses threaded with 
silver, a skin that was still like pink and white velvet, and a 
soft, wistfuJ mouth. 

Lady Augusta Trente glided to her side, and knelt down on 
a low embroidered cushion at her feet, with her elbows resting 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


89 


on Lady Branchley^s lap, and her large Oriental eyes lifted to 
the widovv^s face. 

“ Dear Augusta/'’ said the elder lady, as she softly stroked 
down the jet-black: braids of hair that were coiled around Lady 
Augusta^s small, shapely head, “ you should have been my 
daughter. Heaven knows 1 need one, at such a time as this.^^ 

The quick tide of crimson mounted to Lady Augusta 
Trenton’s very temples — she hid her face on Lady Branchley’s 
arm, only murmuring: 

“-Dear Lady Branchley!’^ 

“ And perhaps you will be my daughter still, resumed the 
widow. “ For Basil. always liked you — 

“ No, no, dear Lady Branchley.^^ 

“Yes, always,’" persisted Lady Branchley. “And now 
that he will see how beautiful you have grown — how necessary 
you are to my happiness, and that of every one — he will sure- 
ly learn to look upon you as his guardian angel.” 

Lady Augusta was silent, with her fair, imperial young 
head still bowed; but in her secret heart there was a tumult 
of contending emotion: pride and happiness, and buoyant 
hope; for ever since the days in which she had come, a slim, 
dark-browed young school-girl, ta^^^pend her vacations with 
Lady Branchley, her dead mothe^®iarliest friend, it had been 
the dearest aspiration of her h^'t^,'6ne day to be lady of all 
these broad'domains, and wife of the young heir of Branchle}^ 

The Earl of Fauntleroy, her father, had died penniless, at 
the German gambling haunt where he had squandered away 
all his money; his wife had died when her youngest girl was 
an infant, and had it not been for the good-nature of a distant 
cousin, who had adopted the two children in some degree and 
provided for them, this young scion of an aristocratic race 
would have been reduced to absolute want. But the distant 
cousin was quite content that Lady Branchley should have all 
of the young Lady Augusta’s society that she pleased, and so 
it came to pass that Lady Augusta was really more at home at 
the Branchley Manor House than in her own abode, or rather 
the rich cousin’s abode of The Chestnuts, near Monmouth. 

Lady Augusta had known what it was to be pinched and 
scanted for money, to wear turned dresses and shabby gloves, 
and to look longingly upon the rich jewels and trinkets show- 
ered on her more fortunate schoolmates, and even if love bad 
nothing to do with the question, she meant to “ marry rich,” 
and secure all these coveted luxuries. And she had also made 
up her mind to marry Basil Branchley. 


90 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


1 wonder if he could possibly arrive in time for dinner/^ 
said Lady Branchley, musingly. 

Lady Augusta looked up. 

Do you mean — 

“ 1 mean Basil, of course, said the elder lady. “ He has 
been away from us two years now. And he is my eldest boy. 
Go, dear Augusta, and look down the drive. 

“ Like Sister Anne in the story, said Lady Augusta, half 
laughing. 

“ Yes, like Sister Anne, if you will have it so,’^ returned 
Lady Branchley, with something as near a smile as had crossed 
her wan lips since they brought her dying husband^s stricken 
form across'the threshold. “ Oh, my darling, you don^t know 
how my heart hungers and thirsts for a sight of him. ^ ’ 

Lady Augusta Tren^te thought that she did know; but she 
made no comment, and, throwing a light Shetland shawl over 
her shoulders, she went out into tlie westering sunshine, down 
the avenue of beeches whose coppery leaves were falling noise- 
lessly in the golden stillness of the autumn air. As she stood 
a moment with her hand shading her eyes from the intense 
brightness of the sun, a tall figure leaped the hedge of laurels 
at the left, and stood before her. 

“ Augusta!^^ said Basil Branchley, huskil}^ and not without 
an accent of disappointment in the tones. “ I thought it was 
my mother. 

“ Ah, Basil, is it you?’^ And, forgetting all else in the 
overwhelming joy of "the moment. Lady Augusta Trente ran 
into his arms, and held up her beautiful scarlet lips for the 
kiss which the school-girl and college lad had so often inno- 
cently interchanged. 

But he did not kiss her; he put her gently away, and 
pressed the hand she held out, with a kind cordiality which 
warded off all thought of offense. 

“ How is she?^^ said he, eagerly. 

Lady Augusta put her arm through his, and tripped along 
the avenue at his side, her eyes still fixed with radiant happi- 
ness on his face. 

“ She is better, Basil. Of course you got our telegram in 
London?^^ 

“ Of course 

“ And he would not have known you, even had you arrived 
in time,^^ added Lady Augusta, lowering her voice to the soft- 
est accents of sympathetic tenderness. . 

Basil Branchley said nothing. His lips were compressed 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


91 


like granite;, his face was very pale, but Lady Augusta thought 
she had never known him look so handsome. 

“ Oh, Basil," ^ cried she, bursting into tears, “ if only you 
had been here!"" 

“ It is of no use talking of that, Augusta,"" said Basil, in a 
low, repressed voice. “ W’here is my mother?"" 

Lady Augusta drew back a little as they reached the open 
windows of the drawing-room. 

‘‘Go in, Basil,"" said she. “She is there."" For Lady 
Augusta Trente felt instinctively that no eyes but those of 
Heaven should witness this first interview between the mother 
and son. 

When Basil Branchley first learned from the family lawyers 
in London that he was fatherless, the shock had been almost 
overpowering; and when the obsequious porter at the Branch- 
ley railway station had addressed him as “ Sir Basil,"" touch- 
ing his hat as he did so, he had recoiled as from an actual 
blow; and the first entrance into the home which had always 
30>'teemed with associations of his dead father was indescribably 
painful. 

“ Oh, Basil, Basil!"" cried out the poor widowed lady, sob- 
bing on her son"s breast. “ Why did you not come before? 
Why have you stayed away from him so long?"" 

“ Mother,"" said Sir Basil, in a deep, low tone of suppressed 
emotion, “ do not ask me. I think I was under a spell. God 
help me!"" 

It was quite dusk when Lady Branchley came out into 
the low garden seat under the lindens, where the Kiver 
TJsk flashed silver through the trees, and the autumn insects 
piped their shrill orchestra— the seat where Lady Augusta 
Trente was dreaming those first sweet dreams of love and 
hope which never come a second time. 

“ Augusta,"" said she. “ My darling! why are you sitting 
here?"" 

Lady Augusta started up, blushing very red even in the 
purjDle twilight. 

“ I was watching the sunset,"" said she, rather confusedly. 

“ It has been set this hour. And you will catch cold. 
Come in, my love,"" urged Lady Branchley, “ I want to talk 
to you about Basil. Is he not handsome? Has he not im- 
proved marvelously?"" 

And to these questions Lady Augusta assented heartily 
enough to satisfy even the fond mother. 

“Am I to tell you what he says of you?"" asked Lady 
Branchley, with an arch smile, as they re-entered the great 


92 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


drawing-room, where lights had already been placed in the 
frosted silver candelabra, and a bright fire of Liverpool coal 
blazed under the draped marble mantel. 

“Dear Lady Branchley,^^ murmured Lady Augusta, “1 
am sure he could not have nientioned me at all. There was 
so much else to talk of.^^ 

“ But he did, my darling,^ ^persisted Lady Branchlex, fondly 
detaining the girTs fluttering hand. “ He said you are grown 
lovelier than ever. He declared that you reminded him of 
some beautiful young Eastern sultana. And oh, Augusta, 
every word that jbe spoke in your praise found its echo in my 
heart. Now go and dress for dinner, and be sure you wear 
that dead white silk with the ivory ornaments, and the white 
stephanotis blossoms for your hair. For 1 want you to look 
your very, very best.'’^ 

And Lady Augusta T rente came down to the dinner- table, 
fresh and beautiful, with the stephanotis in her hair and radi- 
ant roses glowing in her cheeks. Julian Branchley glanced up 
at her in his near-sighted way. 

“ Upon my word, Augusta,’^ said he, “ you look like a prin- 
cess to-night. 

Lady Augusta Trente laughed softly. 

“ You are all bent on flattering me, I think,^^ said she, with 
a pretty self-consciousness that was not at all unbecoming. 

But Sir Basil, at the head of his own table, was unusually 
absent and distraite. 

“ You will spend this first evening with us, Basil?’^ said his 
mother, as he rose after one cup of tea in the drawing-room. 

“ 1 must ask your forbearance, mother, said the young 
baronet, gently. “ After to-night, my time shall be at your 
command. But I have a letter to write, which must not 
longer be delayed.'^ 

“ What does he mean?^^ Lady Branchley asked of her 
younger son, when Sir Basil had left the room. Julian 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“Upon my word, mother,’^ said he, “it is impossible to 
say. Most probably it is some business affair to be settled. 
And besides, 1 dare say, the poor fellow is played out, with 
traveling night and day. HeTl be fresher and more like him- 
self in a day or two.’’ 

“ Sing to me, darling, said Lady Branchley to her adopted 
daughter, when J ulian had gone to his own room for some 
jDapers which he was engaged in assorting and cataloguing. 
“ If once Basil hears your voice, he will be like the mariner of 
the Lotus Isle — he can not keep away.'’^ 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


93 


But all the silver sweetness of Lady Augusta^s delicious 
soprano voice, in the bland old ballads of their childhood, 
failed to beguile the solitary baronet from his writing-table in 
the low-ceiled old study, where his father’s portrait looked 
gravely down upon him from above the carved wooden mantel 
and the shaded lamp cast a circle of brightness on the leather- 
covered desk. 


CHAPTER XV. 

JEALOUSY, THE GREEH-EYED MONSTER. 

It was long past eleven o’clock; the smoldering logs in the 
deep-throated old chimney-place had long since fallen to ashes, 
and the Antwerp clock in the embrasure of the window was 
ticking with the loud, monotonous emphasis which clocks 
always assume toward the dead hours of the night, when Basil 
Branchley started at the light sound of a footstep on the faded 
crimson pile of the Persian carpet that covered the polished 
oaken boards of the floor. 

He turned and saw the tall, slight figure of Lady Augusta 
Trente, robed in the soft, shining folds of the ivory- tinted 
dress — a figure which seemed all the brighter and more airy 
when outlined against the gloom and shadows of the somber 
apartment- 

“ Am I interrupting you?” she asked, with a pretty assump- 
tion of maidenly coyness. 

“ Not in the least,” he answered, with the air of one who is 
roused from a disagreeable reverie. 

“ Basil,” she .said, with a sweet and winning smile, Lady 
Branchley has sent me to ask you to return to the drawing- 
room. She is lonely to-night, and fears you are overtaxing 
yourself, after the long journey by sea and land which you 
have so lately experienced. ” 

He drew forward one of the leather-cushioned easy-chairs. 

“ Will you not sit down, Augusta?” said he. “ I have 
something that 1 want to say to you.” 

The deep scarlet suffused the girl’s face as he spoke. Was 
it possible, she asked herself, with a joyous unleaping of every 
pulse, that her dreams were to be fulfilled so soon? that such 
a golden harvest of happiness was already within hdr reach? 
But' she sat quietly down, mechanically holding up an em- 
broidered satin screen between the lamp-light and her tell-tale 
face. 

“To say to me?” she repeated, with a composure which 
was marvelous even to herself, “ What is it, Basil?” 


94 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


He had evidently finished his letter-writing, for a sealed mis- 
sive lay on the table, close to his hand, and he was leaning 
back with folded arms and eyes fixed intently on the dying 
embers of the fire. 

“ Augusta,^’ said he, fixing his eyes on her with an expres- 
sion which she fancied she could at once interpret, “ we have 
been fond of each other now for many years?’ ^ 

“Yes,” she responded, in a low voice. 

“ And so I may be pardoned for choosing you, even in 
preference to my mother, for my first confidante, after my 
long absence on the Western Continent.” 

Jjady Augusta’s heait beat higli; the glad roses burned on 
her cheeks; but still she spoke not a word. 

•“ >Still,” he added, slowly, “I scarcely know how to be- 
gin. ” 

“ I think,” she hesitated, “ that I can guess what you are 
going to say. ” 

“ Can you?” He turned brightly toward her, with both 
elbows resting on the library table. “ Dear Augusta, I might 
have trusted implicitly in a woman’s perception, 1 know; and 
yet it seems quite impossible that you should have conjectured 
zf/m.” 

“You are not such an arch dissembler as you think,” said 
she, for the first time allowing her eyes to meet his, with shy 
brilliance. 

“ Then tell me how my mother will receive the news?” said 
Sir Basil, vaguely wondering in what manner the tidings of 
his transatlantic marriage could possibly have transpired. 

“Oh, Basil, can there be any question about that?” mur- 
mured Lady Augusta. “ Of course she will be pleased.” 

“God bless you for those words!” he said, taking Lady 
Augusta Trente’s hand in his. “ Dear Augusta, you are a 
herald of good tidings to my doubting heart.” 

“ She has always looked upon me as a daughter, you know,” 
said unconscious Lady Augusta. 

“ Of course 1 may reckon upon your influence with her?” 
went on Sir Basil. “ And I think, Augusta, we shall all be 
happy together. ” 

“Oh, yes!” cried the girl, rather wondering, however, at 
the calm assurance with which Sir Basii Branchley seemed to 
take her consent for granted, before it had been asked in so 
many formal words. But she was too blindly, blissfully hap- 
py to stand on trifling points of ceremony just then. 

“ And you will scarcely wonder at the infatuation under 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


95 


whose spell I acted so suddenly/^ added Sir Basil, “ when you 
see her. ” 

“ See whom?^^ Lady Augusta’s large dark eyes grew 
brighter and larger; the embroidered satin screen fell to the 
floor. 

Theodora!” Sir Basil answered, proudly. “ My fair little 
American wife.” 

“ Your — ivife!^^ uttered Lady Augusta, almost in a shriek, 
as she rose to her feet and involuntarily clasped her hands to- 
gether. ‘ ‘ Basil Branchley, do you mean to tell me that you 
'a.YQ— married f ” 

“I have been married for two years, Augusta,” he an- 
swered, with a smile, although he could hardly comprehend 
the tumult of emotion which the tidings appeared to awaken 
in her mind. “ And when you see Theodora and the two lit- 
tle twin children — ” 

Lady Augusta leaned against the edge of the table for sup- 
port, but a cold, glittering smile came out around the corners 
of her mouth. 

“ You mean that 1 shall be very much surprised,” said she. 
“ Yes — I am surprised. Such news as this, Basil, is generally 
rather startling, just at the first.” 

“ She has seen your iflcture, Augusta,” he pleaded, “ and 
read your letters. ” 

“ Indeed!” The hot crimson mantled Lady Augusta’s fair 
face, even to the very roots of her hair, as she remembered the 
wording of those letters, and fancied to herself the expression 
with which Basil’s wife would study them! 

“ And,” he added, rather exceeding the truth in his anxiety 
to prepossess Lady Augusta in favor of his wife, “ she is pre- 
pared to love you as a sister. ” ' 

She is very kind!” said Lady Augusta, coldly. 

Sir Basil Branchley looked at her in surprise. He could 
not understand what chill blast had swept frigidly across the 
sunshine of her manner. 

“ Of course,” said he, “ traveling day and night as I did, in 
hopes of once more seeing my dear father alive, it was quite 
impossible for me to bring my wife and the little ones with 
me.” 

“ Oh, quite,” 'Lady Augusta mechanically echoed, thinking 
only of her own delusions. 

“ But 1 have written to them to come on at once, in charge 
of a trusty servant, and 1 shall meet them at Southampton. 
And if my mother can be reconciled to the unexpected idea of 
this new daughter — ” 


96 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Yes/^ hurriedly interposed Lady Augusta. “ But 1 
think, Basil, that perhaps you had better not trust to any in- 
tercession of mine in the matter. 1 — I might only j)i’ejudice 
her unfavorably. Believe me, it will be better for you to ex- 
plain the entanglement yourself. 

“ Entauglement!’^ he repeated, with a slight frown. 

“ What else can you call a secret marriage of two years^ 
duration?'’ returned Lady Augusta, icily. “ Though, of 
course, she is very well-born and accomplished?” 

“ She’s neither,” he returned, quietly. 

“Ah!” Lady Augusta was inclined to be cruel, in the bit- 
terness of her disappointment. “ Then it is a mesalliance in- 
stead of an entanglement.” 

“ But she is very beautiful and winning,” added Sir Basil, 
“ and I am sure, Augusta, that you will love her.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Lady Augusta. “ But your mother 
is waiting for you in the drawing-room, Basil. Perhaps you 
had better go to her at once. ” 

“ And you, Augusta?” 

“ I shall go to my own room,” said Lady Augusta. “ My 
head aches, and the excitement of the day has wearied me.” 

“ Good-night, then.” 

“ Good -night.” 

As he held the door open with chivalrous politeness for her 
to pass out, a sudden light seemed to flash across his mind. 
Was it the expression of Lady Augusta Trente’s darkly beau- 
tiful face, as she turned it for one second toward him, in the 
speaking of that “ good-night,” or v/as it something in the 
haughty grace with which she swept past him with the drooping 
stepbanotis blossoms in her hair, and the ivory pendants swing- 
ing from her ears? 

“ Good heavens!” he uttered to himself, as he stood alone 
in the library, with the Antwerp clock ticking drearily, and 
the light glowing softly like a magnified moon, “ can it be 
possible that she has ever cared for me ?” 

And in the next moment he rejected the idea from his mind, 
chiding himself for a conceited fool. 

Five minutes later, however, when he dropped his letter 
into the post-bag on his way to the drawing-room, where his 
mother so anxiously awaited his presence. Lady Augusta 
Trente was standing at the further extremity of the hall, her 
white dress barred with the deep blue reflections from the 
stained-glass casement through which the moon was shining, 
her face strangely pallid in the unnatural light. He did not 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 97- 

see her, but she, intent and silent, watched his every move- 
ment. 

“How handsome he is! how stately!^’ she murmured, 
wringing her hands in the blue glitter of the window. “ Oh, 
Basil — my Basil no longer! Ob, my lost hope — my dead hap- 
piness!’^ 

She hurried to her own room, where the fire burned low, 
and Priscilla, the maid, was yawning by the light of a bed- 
candle. 

“ You may go, Priscilla,” said she. “ I shall nol want you 
to-night. ” 

Priscilla obeyed gladly enough. And when she was alone 
Lady Augusta Trente walked dliberately up to the mirror, and 
looked herself in the face with a low, mocking laugh, that 
sounded strangely in the midnight silence of the' room. 

“ People tell me that 1 am beautif ul,” said she, “ but where 
is the use of melting eyes, and hair like silk, and straight, in- 
sipid features, if they can not win you the one heart in all the 
world for which you care? I might as well be a toothless, 
grinning old hag, like blind Betty at the toll-house gates. Oh, 
vain, conceited idiot that ! have been! wretched, broken- 
hearted woman that I shall be for all the miserable remnant 
of my days!” 

With a passionate, choking cry she tore the fading blossoms 
from her hair, and flung away the ornaments with which she 
had so carefully decked herself so brief awhile ago. 

“ Fool! fool!” she kept repeating, under her breath, as she 
paced up and down the room, with hands now pressed upon 
her heart, now clasped wildly above her head, “ to let myself 
love him when all his false and cruel heart is given to an- 
other! To tell him so, in almost so many words, when the 
love letter he had been writing to the woman who stole his 
heart away from me lay under his very hand — full of sweet 
words — brimming with honeyed phrases — oh, if I could tear 
it to pieces and scatter it to the four winds of heaven!” 

She paused abruptly at this moment, as if some sudden 
fancy had occurred to her mind. 

“And why should 1 not?” she asked herself. “It would 
at least be some compensation to me if I could make her suffer 
one pang like those that are rending my heart in pieces at this 
instant. And as for Basil, he deserves the cruelest stroke 
which Fortune can deal!” 

Lady Augusta Trente noiselessly opened the door and 
looked out into the hall. All was still and deserted there, 
and she glided along the softly carpeted floor until she reached 


98 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


the door, of the state apartment, where Sir Keginald Jh’anch- 
ley’s dead body had lain in state. In one of the tiny drawers 
of the great black and gold chiffoniers there lay the payticular 
key of the post-bag, which' Sir Reginald had always carried in 
his vest-pocket during his life. She knew this, for she herself 
had placed it there when a servant had brought it to her in the 
first horror of the accident. The only other key was now in 
the possession of the widowed Lady Branchley herself. 

Returning as ({uietly as she had gone, Lady Augusta took 
the post-bag from its accustomed place on the hall table, and 
unlocking it, took out the letter addressed to “ Mrs. Basil 
Branchley, Eaglescliffe Hall, near Ballston, New York, 
U. S. A.,” and secreted it in the pocket of her dress. She 
then relocked the bag, carried the key back to its place, and 
hurrying with velvet footsteps to her own room, thrust the 
letter deep down into the red embers of the fire. It blazed 
up, brightening the room with a momentary illumination, 
which shone strangely on Lady Augusta’s white, set face, and 
then died down again. 

“So' it will be with the hopes in her heart,’' said Lady 
Augusta to herself. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ko letter to-day.” 

“ Dolly to hum, eh?” said the sonorous voice of honest 
Reuben Hallowell. 

The December snows were piled high against the fence of 
the Saratoga farm-house; the cold, glittering sunshine of a 
cloudless December day was turning the surface of the solitary 
meadows to sheeted diamonds, and the biting blast seemed to 
wreathe with the trees like an icy gladiator, as Reuben jumped 
out of the old-fashioned red cutter drawn by an old acquaint- 
ance— Bonny— with a paper package under his arm, and his 
face all blowsy and empurpled with the cold — so much of it, 
at least, as could be perceived between a red worsted com- 
forter below and a bear-skin cap above. 

At the cheery sound of sleigh-bells, Joanna Beck had hur- 
ried to the door, looking older and grislier and more rigid 
than ever, in a faded calico wrapper and shoes down at heel, 
while her hair, twisted into a tight knot at the back of her 
head, was skewered through as usual with the high horn-comb 
which was her favorite coi^ure; and as she opened the door, 
the interior glimpse was by no means inviting, for the intense 
sunshine of the winter day brought out every crack in the ceil. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


99 




ing, every spot in the faded rag carpet, and every smoke-blotch 
on tli3 walls; and, although Joanna was tolerably neat in her 
housekee[)ing, she had no idea whatever of taste or expediency 
in the hiding of such unsightly belongings. Over the stove 
sundry slices of ham were fizzling in a frying-pan, a card of 
fresh gingerbread had just been taken out of the oven, and a 
“ Rebecca tea-pot of dark-glazed ware was beginning to send 
forth a delicious odor of Souchong, while a table in the mid- 
dle of the floor, spread with a scant and often-darned table- 
cloth, denoted that the midday meal was near at hand. 

“ Ytjs, she’s to hurn,^'’ said Miss Joanna, laying down the 
fork with which she had just turned one of the fast browning 
fflices of ham. “ She^s in the front room with the children. 
Says the smell of the cooking makes her faint 

‘‘ P’r’aps it does,^’ said Reuben, warming his mittened 
hands over the stove. 

“ Stutf and nonsense!’^ said Joanna. “ I hate 'such fine 
lady airs. Ma?iy^s the meal of victuals she’s cooked in this 
very kitchen, and it never hurt her. ' But Mrs. Branchley and 
Dolly Beck are two very different people, it seems”— with a 
sniff that had nearly lifted her off her feet. “ Got a letter f oi- 
lier ?” 

But before Reuben Hallowell could answer, the door of the 
inner apartment opened and a slight figure,, dressed in a trail- 
ing dress of black silk, soiled and spotted with md're than one 
trace of grease and stains, which was sufficiently ill-assorted 
with the other belongings of the scene, came in— Dora her- 
self. 

Yet not Dora as we beheld her last— all the radiance of 
youth, and health, and luxuriant surroundings. She was paler 
than of yore, and there was a wistful, anxious look shining 
out of her great, dark eyes which was new to them. Her 
lovely golden hair was carelessly fastened into a net at the 
back of her head, and the children’s restless little fingers had 
torn away part of the lace frill that hung over her shoulder. 

“ I knew I should get a letter torday, Reuben,” said she, 
eagerly. “ Give it to me!” and she held out her hand with 
the quick, impatient movement of old. 

Jieuben Hallowell glanced pityingly down upon her face. 

“ No, Dolly,” said he, speaking as if the words hurt him, 
“ there’s no letter to-day.” 

Dora receded a step or two, the blank look of disappoint- 
ment coming into her face like a gray shadow. 

“ But there musl be!” said she. “ Are you sure, Reuben? 
Qiiile sure?” 


100 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ 1 asked the post-office clerk myself/" said Reuben. “ And 
1 looked over his shoulder while he was a sortin’ out all the 
B’s. And there warn’t none there.” ^ i , 

Theodora' sunk down into one of the rush-bottomed kitchen 
chairs, with her eyes fixed vaguely on the flood of sunshine 
that poured through the uncurtained windows upon the floor. 

“ It’s strange!” said she. “ Very strange!” 

“ Humph!” commented Joanna, as she lifted the lid of the 
tea-pot and peered into its seething depths. Dora turned upon " 
her with unexpected suddenness. ‘ ^ t> i. -i. 

“I know what you mean, Joanna,” said she. But it 

isn’t so. ” ^ 

“ 1 didn’t say nothing,” remarked the elder sister, some- 
what disconcerted. , , , i 

“ He never would forget me!” cried Dora, with her hand 
pressed to her throbbing throat. “No, never! He said he^ 
would write, and he will.” 

“ Why don’t he, then?” said Miss Joanna, grimly. 

“ Come, dinner is ready. Sit by, Reuben, and take a bit of 
ham and eggs.” 

“ I couldn’t, thank’ee,” said Reuben. “ Mrs. Hallowell, 
she’ll be expecting of me at home, and I’m late already. But 
1 just fetched up a Noah’s Ark and a nigger doll-baby for the 
children. AVhere be they, anyhow?” 

But the sound of Reuben’s voice had attracted the babies 
like a magnet — and they came toddling out of the front room, 
hand in hand, rosy little wee things, with tangled curls and 
short white dresses, not the elegant little human fashion- 
plates of Marie’s Callic reign, but healthy, hearty children, 
with cheeks like cherries, long-lashed, shining eyes, and faces 
all dotted over with dimples. They flung themselves on Reu- 
ben with the joyous, untranslatable chatter of infancy — and 
Reuben, sitting down on the floor in their midst, proceeded at 
once to unpack the mysteries of the brown paper parcels in 
his coat pockets. 

“That’s right, Nell,” said Reuben, with a burst of 
laughter, as the little Helen began to walk up and down the 
room uttering a crooning sound, with the knitted doll in her 
arms, “ put the nigger baby to sleep. Ain’t that gal-natup, 
anyhow! And, Lordy me, whatever is Wally going to do with 
that there animal outen the Ark?” 

For Walter had singled out some especial beast in painted 
wood and was stamping his small foot at it, and scolding in 
liquid inarticulates at the top of his shrill voice. 

Theodora’s sad face brightened into a smile. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


101 


“Don't you see," said she, “it's a wolf? And Wallv is 
always so interested in the story of ‘ Little Red Ridinv Houd 
and the Wolf?' " 

“ 'Ittle Wed Widing Hood!" solemnly repeated the child. 
“ Naughty Wolf I" 

And catching up the unfortunate wooden presentment of 
the obnoxious animal, little Walter flung it into the red gulf 
of flame visible above the stove hearth. 

Miss Joanna caught him by the blue-ribboned shoulder and 
gave him a shake. 

“You little rascal!" cried she, sharply. “ Buruiu' up the 
toys Reuben Hallo well has bought youf" 

Little Wally, who had regarded himself as performing a 
righteous deed of retribution, looked iqo at his aunt, and burst 
into a shrill cry. Dora sprung forward and caught him in her 
arms. 

“ Joanna!" cried she, breathlessl}^, “ how dare you?" 

“How dare I loliatf” retorted Joanna. “Ain't them 
precious young ones o’ your'n never to be corrected?" 

“No!" cried Dora, with blazing eyes and cheeks glowing 
in two red spots, as she pressed the frightened baby close to 
her breast. 

“ There," said Joanna, resignedly, as she turned to Reuben 
Hallowell, “ that’s the way it always is. I can’t so much as 
look at them children but Dolly snaps my head off. And the 
dear knows it ain't no way to bring up children!" 

“ You hadn't ought to have touched the boy,^" said Reu- 
ben, siding with the enemy at once. 

“ Fiddlesticks!" said Joanna. “ And let him set the house 
afire, burnin' up his new toys!" 

“ He didn't mean no harm," said Reuben, holding out his 
great red finger encouragingly, as little Wally, released from 
his mother's grasp, came once more toward his Noah's Ark, 
whose heterogeneous contents were scattered miscellaneously 
over the floor. “Halloo, Wally! Just look at that there 
humpy camel, and the cows with their curly horns!" 

“Dinner's ready and coolin’," said Joanna, brusquely. 
Reuben rose to his feet, with a guilty glance at the clock. 

“ Twenty minutes past twelve," said he. “I swan I hadn't 
no idea it was so late." 

And, scrubbing Nelly's satin cheek with his bearded good- 
bye kiss, and waving an adieu to Walter, who was solemnly 
comparing the different complexions of the wives of Noah's 
sons, he hurried off to the red cutter and old Bonny. 

Joanna looked after him with a grim smile. 


102 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


“ I reckon he’Jl catch it when he gets home/’ said she. 
“ I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, not for consid’able. But 
it serves him right for marrying a woman with a temper like 
Almiry Higginbotham’s.” 

Dora made no answer. She had drawn her chair up to the 
table in obedience to Joanna’s imperious summons, and she 
was trifling with her tea-cup and a crust of bread, but she 
neither eat nor drank. 

“She’s as jealous of you as the old cat, Dolly,” added 
Joanna, as she helped herself to a liberal slice of ham. “And 
1 won’t say but what she has reason.” 

Still Dora neither looked up nor answered. It was a ques- 
tion whether she even heard; but in a minute or two she lifted 
her large eyes to Joanna’s face. 

“ Two montlis,” said she. “ Yes, it is two months and 
more. ” 

Miss Joanna stared, with her tea-cup, like Mohammed’s cof- 
fin, half-way between the heaven of her maiden lips and the 
earth of the homespun linen table-cloth. 

“ What on earth is the girl talking about?’’ said she. 

“ Since he went away,” explained Dora. 

“Oh!” said Miss Joanna — and Mohamemd’s coffin com- 
pleted its journey. 

“ And it is so strange— so very strange — that I have re- 
ceived no letters!” added Dora. 

“ Humph!” commented Joanna, “ 1 don’t think it’s 
strange at all. ” 

Dora looked up sharply. 

“ What do you mean?” said she; but Joanna went on drink- 
ing her tea. The young wife rose and came around to her 
sister’s chair. 

“ Joanna,” said she, laying her hand on the elder woman’s 
shoulder, and speaking in quick, breathless accents, “ you 
shall speak out.! You shall explain the meaning of all these 
hints, and whispers, and sidelong looks, whenever 1 speak my 
husband’s name.” 

Joanna Beck pushed back her chair in extreme impatience. 

“ Well, then,” said she, “ if you must know, 1 don’t think 
it’s at all strange that Mr. Branchley— if that’s his real name 
— don’t write to you. I only think it’s strange of you to ex- 
pect it of him.” 

“ You think he is coming back for me?” 

“ No, I don’t,” said Joanna, emphatically. “ I think he’s 
tired of you, and he’s cleared out. That’s my opinion, if you 


LOVE AT SARATOC4A. 


103 


really insist upon having it in plain words. Atul you needn’t 
look as if you was a-goin^ to eat me up for speakin’ it out!^^ 

Dora gave a little gasp, like a swimmer over whose head the 
strong waters are closing. 

“ But, Joanna,^^ said she, faintly, “ he — loved me!^^ 

“ He might have loved you once, said Joanna, buttering a 
huge half slice of bread, “ but I guess all that sort of nonsense 
is over long ago. You've a temper, Dolly, that would try 
the patience of the Angel Gabriel, and you know it." 

" He is my husband." 

“ P'r'aps he is, and p'r^^aps he ain't." 

“He is — he i*'/" Dora cried out, in tones half suffocated 
with anger, as she drew a small package from her bosom. 
“ I have got my marriage certificate here — I remembered to 
take thai when 1 left all else behind. Look, Joanna, look!" 

“ Oh, it's all right enough, 1 dare say," answered Miss 
Beck, indifferently. “ You was a new toy then, and my fine 
gentleman didn't mind much what price he paid, so long as 
he got you. But may be he's realized, since then, that he 
paid rather dear for his bargain. And as for the certificate, 
what good does that do you, with him nobody knows where, 
and you tucked into the chimney-corner here, with the chil- 
dren pulling at your skirts? Don't you suppose a rich gentle- 
man like him has enough ways of slipping out of a bargain 
like this, if he really wants to, no matter how legal and square 
it may be? Look you, Dolly, 1 never have said this before, 
])ut I've thought it all along, and I ain't the only one as thinks 
so, neither." 

“ It's false!" cried Dora, turning red and pale at this re- 
markably plain confirmation of the vague apprehensions which 
had more than once presented themselves to her own perplexed 
mind. 

“ It may be false," said Joanna, coolly, “ but it looks un- 
commonly like the truth. Grand gentlemen like this Mr. 
Branchley don't marry working-girls over here and lift 'em 
up into their fine English castles, if so be as they've got any. 
They leave 'em in the gutters, where they found 'em. And 
it stands to reason they should !" 

“ Joanna!" cried Dora, stamping her foot on the ground in 
impotent rage, “ be silent! How dare you speak thus to me ?" 

“ Hoity-toity!" said Joanna, “ what's this world coming 
to, that the plain truth ain't to be spoke without such a com- 
motion as this?" 

But even her adamant heart melted a little at the sight of 
poor, pretty Dora in a quivering heap on the floor, her golden 


104 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


hair streaming over the carpet, her face hidden in her hands, 
her whole frame convulsed by sobs. 

‘‘ Dolly, said she, “there’s no use taking on like this. 
You’ve only got to make the best of it. You’ve many fine 
dresses and jewels, aud it wouldn’t be so bad, after all, if it 
wasn’t for the children.” 

Dora sat up, and clasped little Nell’s baby form in her arms, 
while Walter, dimly comprehending that some one was ill- 
using his mother, pounded with all the strength of his infan- 
tine fists at Aunt Joanna’s ponderous calf-skin boot. 

“If it wasn’t for the children — Ms children and mine!” 
she wailed out. “ Oh, how could I live without them? My 
little treasures— the only light in all my dreary life!” 

And at the touch of Nelly’s soft cheek against her own, the 
bitterness of her tears seemed to melt into something softer 
and more blessedly healing. 

Long after the child had fallen asleep in her arms, Dora 
sat there on the floor, leaning her head against the wall and 
thinking. 

Until those dreadful, solitary days under the blighting roof 
of the old farm-house, the possibility that Basil Branchley 
might have ceased to love her never had crossed Theodora’s 
mind. She had been so certain of her empire over her hus- 
band’s heart that she had stooped to no caressing blandish- 
ments, no soft, winning words to preserve it. And now that 
she began to comprehend that the past was indeed past, the 
whole depth and earnestness of her own feelings for the man 
burst on her consciousness like a mountain avalanche. 

“Oh! I never knew — I never dreamed,” she sobbed aloud 
in the extremity of her distress, “ how dearly I loved him! I 
never knew hovv necessary he was to my life. I let him go 
away from me without a word or a smile, and now — On, 
Basil! oh, my husband! oh, God, have mercy on me, and 
bring his heart back to me!” 

Aud when, half an hour afterward, Joanna came back' from 
the upstairs regions, where she had been busied in some un- 
accountable saturnalia, she found Dora asleep on the floor, 
with her head against the wall, and the traces of tears on her 
cheeks. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

MRS. HALLOWELL’s OPINION. 

Mrs. Reuben Uallowell was in no very agreeable frame 
of mind. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


105 


She stood ill the mitltlio oi lier kitchen with a note in her 
haudj a sealed note, which she was turning upside down and 
downside up, and surveying from every possible point of the 
compass. Little had the unsuspecting clam-peddler dreamed, 
when he left this innocent-looking document at the door, with 
the curt message, “ You're to give it to the boss when he 
comes home," what an Archimedean lever of trouble it would 
prove. 

The kitchen, with its brilliant Venetian carpeting, ball- 
fringed window-curtains of snowy dimity, and black-leaded 
kitchen stove, presented a notable contrast to the dreary 
domains in which Miss Joanna Beck reigned supreme. Scar- 
let geraniums, with round scalloped leaves, like green velvet, 
and trusses of vivid bloom, filled up the deep window-sills; 
presses of china, and delf, and Britannia ware occupied the 
corners, and a tall clock, for which an antiquary had once 
offered a hundred dollars in vain — a clock inherited by Mrs. 
Reuben Hallowell from her Higginbotham ancestry, who were 
notable people — stood in the corner, with a brass face and a 
body of carved black oak, representing all the signs or the 
zodiac in most improbable and back-breaking positions. For 
Almira Higginbotham had been a rustic heiress, and as people 
thereabouts expressed it, “ had money out to interest." 

But' greenbacks and accumulated interest can not always 
purchase domestic bliss, and since Miss Joanna Beck's married 
sister had come home to live at the “Poplar Corners" — as 
the old homestead of the Beck family was popularly char- 
acterized — Almira Hallowell had been a miserable young ma- 
tron. She had always been rather addicted to jealousy, and 
now she firmly believed that her husband was falling, with 
most culpable willingness, into the toils of this dark-eyed 
Philistine with the golden hair, who dragged her long-skirted 
dresses over the muddy roads, and tacitly insulted the ladies 
of the vicinity by wearing silks and satins, and even diamonds 
(“ though of course," Mrs. Hallowell remarked to her neigh- 
bor, Mrs. Jedediah Linkwater, “they're not real T’) vf\\Qn 
they, the ladies aforesaid, could boast only calicoes, French 
poplins, and Whitby jet. 

These offenses, taken in conjunction with the fact that Mrs. 
Branchley was popularly considered “ stuck-up," in with- 
holding her presence from divers and sundry quilting-parties, 
spelling-bees, and tin-wedding celebrations in the vicinity, 
were in themselves, as any unprejudiced female must admit, 
intolerable. But when superadded to these facts came the 
terrible suspicion that the golden-haired Philistine was “ mak- 


106 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


ing .eyes at her own lawful husband, who was universally 
conceded to have been partial to her, the golden -haired Philis- 
tine, in ante-nuptial days, the matter became beyond all bear- 
ing; and Mrs. Reuben Hallo well had made up her mind that 
she wouldn^t bear it any longer. 

“ I ’most know it’s from her,” said Mrs. Reuben Hallowell, 
with compressed lips and eyes darting fire, “ and I’ll find out 
what’s in it, or my name ain’t Almiry.” 

The tea-kettle was singing melodiously over the black-leaded 
stove, in preparation for the noonday cup of tea. Mrs. Hallo- 
well advanced resolutely toward it, and holding the intercepted 
epistle in the cloud of steam for a minute or so, unsealed the 
envelope with the greatest ease. 

“ I won’t be put upon no longer,” said Mrs. Hallowell, as 
she unfolded the half sheet of pin k paper, and read, in a strag- 
gling, feminine hand: 

“ Dear Reubeit, — Will you meet me at the Mistletoe 
Wood this afternoon at five? 1 want to speak to you. 

' “ Theodora.” 

The letter dropped from Mrs. Hallowell’s almost paralyzed 
fingers. 

“ Well, I never!” cried she. “ The impudence of that 
bold-faced, domineering, dressed -up grass- widow! ‘ Dear Reu- 
ben ’—indeed! ‘ The Mistletoe Wood at five o’clock ’ — and 
just because it is a lonesome^ place where nobody ever goes! 
‘ Theodora’ — indeed! I wouldn’t ha’ believed it if 1 hadn’t 
seen it with my own eyes!” 

But in spite of her righteous indignation, Mrs. Reuben 
Hallowell had a shrewd eye to expediency, and she lost no 
time in resealing the letter by the aid of a dab of mucilage, 
and placing it in a conspicuous place on the wooden mantel, 
where it would be sure to attract the attention of her uncon- 
scious husband when first he should cross the domestic thresh- 
old. 

“Now we’ll see!” said Almira Hallowell. 

Presently Reuben came in, ruddy and smiling, bringing with 
him an exhilarating whiff of the delicious winter air. 

“Well, Almiry,” said he, chucking his better half under 
her sharp chin— Mrs. Reuben Hallowell belonged to the spare 
and angular order of women— “ hain’t Deacon Dredmore sent 
no word about them oxen?” 

“ There’s no word been sent,” said Mrs. Hallowell. “ Not 
except that there letter on the mantle-tree.” 

Reuben took down the letter and opened it, all unaware that 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


107 


the faded blue eyes of his wife were fixed keenly iqion him. 
He read it through twice, and then placed it carefully in the 
inner pocket of his capacious waistcoat. 

“Is it about the oxen?'^ said Mrs. Almira, with a peculiar 
smile. 

“ N — no,^^ said Reuben, coloring a little, for he knew his 
wife’s weakness in regard to Ihe dark-eyed resident of the 
Poplar Corner farm-house; “it’s business.” 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Hallo well, digging her needle viciously 
into the seam she was engaged in sewing up. 

And that evening, in the orange glow of a superb December 
sunset, Dora Branchley hurried down a leafless lane of maple- 
trees to a lonely copse situated in a desolate valley, and com- 
monly known as the Mistletoe Wood, there to find honest Reu- 
ben Hallowell leaning against a fence and industriously 
occupied in chewing a straw. 

“ Well, Dolly,” said he, “ I’m here.” 

“Yes,” said Dora, hurriedly. “You see, Reuben, I 
wanted to speak to you when Joanna could not hear every 
word 1 say.” 

“ All right,” said Reuben. “ Go ahead.” 

“ I want some money,” began Dora. 

Reuben thought of Ixis account at the Saratoga bank; but 
before he could find words to mention it, Dora went on : 

“ I’ve got two rings and a little brooch that Basil— my hus- 
band — gave me. Diamonds, Reuben— see?” and opening a 
little pasteboard box, she disclosed to his astonished eyes the 
glitter of rare stones. 

“ Is them diamonds?” said Reuben, peering curiously into 
the box. “ Blessed if ever I seed any afore, except the Cali- 
forny kind.” 

“ But these are real,” said Dora, regarding their sparkle 
with instinctive fondness; ‘ ‘ and worth — oh I a deal of money. ” 

“Well?” said Reuben. 

“ And I want you to sell them for me,” said Dora. “ At 
Saratoga I can’t go myself, because I’ve no way to get to the 
village, and Joanna asks so many questions. But I thought, 
Reuben, that, for the sake of old times, you might perhaps 
oblige me.” 

“ That 1 will,” said Reuben, heartily. “You might ha’ 
knowed that, Dolly, without askin’.” 

“ Yes,”, said Dora, “ I was sure of it. You were always 
good to me, Reuben.” 

As she spoke, she placed the little pasteboard box in his 
hands. 


108 


LOVE AJ SARATOGA. 


“ Hold on a bit/* said lieiiben. “ There’s two rings and a 
brooch?** 

“Yes; I told you so.** 

“ And how much money do you expect to get for *em?** he 
asked. 

“I don’t know/’ said Dora, vaguely. “ A hundred dol- 
lars, perhaps.” 

“ Diamonds is worth a deal of money/* remarked Reuben; 
“ but second-hand things don’t fetch first-hand prices.” 

“ They are not second-hand,” cried Dora; “ they are quite 
new.” 

“ A thing is second-hand if you’ve worn it twice,” said 
Reuben. “However, I’ll do my best, Dolly; you may be 
quite sure of that.” 

“ And when?” urged Dora; “ I mean, how soon? Because 
1 want the money, Reuben, oh! so much.” 

“ Will the day after to-morrow do?” asked Reuben. 

“ If you can’t go sooner.” 

“I might manage it to-morrow,” said Reuben, having re- 
course to a fresh straw, “ if I turn and twist matters a little.” 

“ Oh, Reuben! if you only could!” cried Dora, eagerly, 
laying her hand on his arm. 

“I will,” said Reuben; “blessed if I don’t! But look 
here, Dolly. You ain’t going home already?” 

“ I must,” said Dora, with an apprehensive glance at. the 
sky, which the pale orange of the sunset. was deepening into 
crimson. “ I have to put the children to bed.” 

“ I’ll walk with you as far as the Corners,” said Reuben, 
diving his huge hand down into his outside pocket. “ And 1 
say, Dolly, here’s some cakes of maple sugar for the chil- 
dren. ” 

“ Oh, Reuben, how good you are!” said Dora, melted into 
positive animation by this tribute to Wally and little Nell. 

“ Very good, indeed!’^ echoed a shrill voice, in mocking 
accents, and Mrs. Reuben Hallowell herself stepped out from 
behind the screen of a huge cluster of wild laurels whose ever- 
green leaves grew on the edge of the copse. “ But perhaps 
you’ll be so good, Mrs. Branchley, as to remember that Reu- 
ben Hallowell is a married man.*' 

Dora looked up in surprise. 

“ I don’t understand you, Mrs. Hallowell,” said she. 

“ Don’t you, indeed?” said Almira, viciously. “ P’r’aps, if 
you’ve a husband of your own — ” 

“ Almiry, hush!” interposed Reuben, who was only just be- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


109 


ginning to recover from the shock of seeing his lady wife in 
this unexpected spot and season. 

“ You hadn’t better call on other womens’ husbands to do 
your errands!” added Almira. 

“Is it wrong?” said Dora, looking piteously up into Reu- 
ben’s face. “ I — I didn’t think of that. And Reuben was 
always so kind to me in the old times.” 

“ y/zdeed!” said Mrs. llallowell. “So I have heard. If 
you’ll give me your arm, Reuben, I’m going on to the store.” 

Reuben hesitated. 

“ I was going to see Dolly as far as the Corners,” said he. 

Mrs. Hallo well jerked her hand out of her husband’s arm. 

“ Oh, pray don’t let me stand in the way,” said she. “ Of 
course 1 can go about my business quite alone. I am only 
your lawful wedded wife, but everybody knows how attractive 
Mrs. Branchley is!” 

Poor Dora looked frightened. 

“ Go with her, Reuben, pray,” she said. “ Don’t mind 
me— it’s only a few steps, and I am quite used to going by 
myself about these quiet roads. ” 

And she disappeared, like a flitting gray shadow, down the 
twilight road, while Mr. llallowell turned to his wife. 

“ Almiry,” said he, conciliatingly, “ don’t be vexed.” 

“ Oh, I’m not vexed. Not in the least,” said Mrs. Hallo- 
well. “ Of course I know I ain’t to be compared with Mrs. 
Branchley! If 1 was to write sly notes to other womens’ hus- 
bands, and meet ’em after dark — ” 

“ It ain’t a?ter dark, Almiry,” interposed poor harried 
Reuben. 

“ It’s near enough to it, then,” sputtered his wife. “ If 1 
was to cut up such capers, folks would talk. But I ain’t 
Dolly Branchley!” 

“ Won’t you take my arm?” said Reuben, meekly. 

“No, 1 won’t,” said his wife. “ I’ll leave that sort of 
thing to Dolly Branchley.” 

“ Almiry, 

Mrs. Hallowell burst out into hysterical laughter. 

“You thought you was managing the matter so sly, didnH 
you?” said she. “ But 1 knew all about it.” 

“ It wasn’t no harm, Almiry.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” said Mrs. Hallowell, with a toss 
of the head. “ Going to Saratoga, and selling diamonds on 
the sly, so that no questions should be asked. Raising money 
to elope with you, I shouldn’t wonder.” 

“Almiry!”' 


no 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


But Mrs. Hullowell had no sort of mercy on her unfortunate 
spouse, and his homeward walk that eveuiug was over no 
path of roses. 

AVhile poor Dolly, harrying back to the solitary farm-house, 
under the poplar-trees, was tasting all the bitterness of the cup 
which she herself had once held so relentlessly to Edith May- 
dew’s shrinking lips. 

Was it a Nemesis? Theodora Branchley had never heard of 
the fabled embodiment of all Retribution, but she felt in her 
heart that she was only meeting with her just deserts. 

“ If I had all my life to live over again,” thought this sad 
little philosopher of eighteen, “ I should do very differently.” 

It was not easy to evade Joanna’s sharp queries when she 
returned; but when at last she was safe in the refuge of her 
own room, lulling little Wally to sleep with a soft, sweet 
nursery song, while Helen played with her pink toes before 
the blaze of the pine logs, a great longing took possession of 
her heart, and she cried aloud to the dreary silence: 

“Oh, Basil! Oh, my husband! if I could only see your 
dear face, just for one little minute, what would I not give?” 


CHAPTER XVllI. 

GOING AWAY. 

When Reuben Hallowell came to the Poplar Corners the 
next evening, he was accompanied by his wife, in a rustling 
new dress, with a green velvet bonnet profusely trimmed with 
orange flowers, and a j)air of cheap kid gloves, which were one 
size too small for her hands. 

“ She loould come,” said Reuben, in a deprecatory whisper, 
which Almira’s ear was swift to detect. 

“ Why shouldn’t 1?” said she. “ If Mrs. Branchley’s so- 
ciety is so agreeable, there- is no reason why I shouldn’t enjoy 
it as well as other people.” 

“ I am very happy to see you, Mrs. Hallowell,” said Dora, 
with a quiet dignity which disarmed Almira’s words of half 
their sting. 

“ And here’s the money,” added Reuben. “ I couldn’t 
keep it secret from Almiry. She would insist on going every- 
where I did all day long.” 

“ And who has a better right, I wonder?” put in Mrs. 
Hallowell, with a venomous toss of her head. 

“ Ninety-five dollars,” said Reuben. “ It ain’t much, but 
it was all 1 could get.” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Ill 


“lam very much obliged to you, I am sure^"' said Dora, 
hurriedly placing the notes in her little pearl porte-monnaie, a 
relic of past grandeur. Reuben looked inquiringly around the 
room. 

“ Children in bed?^^ said he. 

“ Oh, yes, long ago,^^ said Dora. “Joanna doesn^t like 
them to be around after candle-light; she wants her evenings 
to herself, she says. And Nelly has the knitted doll clasped 
close in her arms, dear little thing 

Mrs. Reuben Hallo well looked keenly at her husband; even 
the smile that softened his rugged features at the mention of 
the child was an offense to her. 

“ What doll?^^ said she, sharply. 

“ A doll that Reuben gave, her, said unconscious Dora. 

“ Humph commented Almira. “ I\e a married sister 
with six dear little ones, but Reuben never gave none o^ them 
knitted dolls. 

Reuben Hallowell rose up hurriedly and began to wind the 
coils of his capacious red comforter around his neck. 

“ 1 guess p^r^aps we may as well be going, said he. 

And when the door had closed behind the married pair, 
Joanna looked contemptuously at her sister. 

“ Dolly,” said she, “ youh*e a fool, and always were!” 

“ I don^’t know what you mean, Joanna.” / 

“ Why didn^’t you hold your tongue aboufTReuben giving 
that doll to the child?” 

“ Ought 1 to have done so?” said innocent Dolly. “ Was 
there any harm in it?” 

“ Harm ! no. But Almiry Higginbotham always was jeal- 
ous of you, and Reuben will wish the doll in Jericho, I guess, 
afore he hears the last of it.” 

“ Nonsense!” said Dora, half angrily. “ But, Joanna, 
look here; do 1 owe you much money?” 

J'oanna^s cold eyes glimmered at the mention of lucre. 

“ Considerable,” said she 

Dora’s countenance fell. 

“It can’t be so very much,” said she. “And there are 
my dresses, and the red coral set that you liked, and the long 
gold chain.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said Joanna; “ Pve put it all down to a 
regular debit and credit account, and you owe me thirty dol- 
lars yet.” 

“ Thirty dollars!” Dora pondered for a minute. “ Joanna, 
there is the sealskin sacque. Would you like that?” 


112 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Once again Miss Beck's fishy orbs sparkled with speculative 
luster. 

“ I don't mind/’ said she, careful not to display any undue 
eagerness. “ Though, to be sure, it is only second-hand." 

“ Basil gave two hundred dollars for it, and 1 wore it only 
one winter." 

“ 1 wouldn't be willing to allow more than fifty for it." 

“ Then it shall be yours," said Dora, hurriedly. “ And, 
Joanna, here are twenty-five dollars more — for the children, 
you know, while I am gone." 

“ Gone where?" sharply demanded the elder sister, with 
the roll of bills firmly clasped in her hand. 

“I forgot that 1 had not told you," said Dora, nervously 
playing with the ribbon loops on the pocket of her di’ess. “ 1 
am going to my husband." 

“ To — England exclaimed Joanna. 

“ Yes, or wherever he is. I'must know the mystery of his 
long silence," cried out Dora, piteously. “ 1 must see him!" 

“ And the children?" 

“ 1 can't take them with me, you know, Joanna," pleaded 
Dora. “ They are so little and so tender — and if you vvill 
keep them here, and be good to them, 1 will pay you well. 
There’s the sealskin sacque and the twenty-five dollars, and 
I'll send you some more, Joanna, when 1 get to my husband. 
And then we shall come back after them as soon as possible." 

Joanna shook her head discouragingly. 

‘‘ It's only a wild-goose chase, Dolly," said she. “If he 
wanted you, he'd have come for you long ago, or written, or 
something." 

“ He does want me," Dora responded, quietly. “ And he 
has written — but somehow I haven’t received his letters." 

“ Humph!" gruiTted Joanna, incredulously. 

“ Joanna!" .appealed the poor girl, in tears. 

“ If you'll take my advice," said the elder sister, “ you'll 
stay where you are and make up your mind to support your- 
self and the children the best way you can." 

“ Ah!" said Dora, softly, “ you think he has deserted me. 
But you don't know Basil as I do. He loves me, Joanna." 

To this Miss Joanna made no reply, unless a very meaning 
compression of the lips and shrug of the shoulders might be 
construed into a reply. 

“ You'll take good care of Wally and Nell while I am gone, 
dear Joanna?" pleaded the younger sister. “ It will only be 
for a little while, and they are so small and helpless. Promise 
me that, Joanna." 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


113 


She looked such a very child herself, as she knelt entreat- 
- ingly on the floor at her sister^s feet, with imploring eyes and 
disheveled golden hair, that even Joanna’s adamant heart was 
softened a little. 

“ It’ll take pretty much all my time,” said she, as if re- 
luctantly. “ And I never was partial to children.” 

“ But I will pay you well,” urged Dora. “ Dear Joanna, 
promise me. And we will come back, Basil and 1, almost be- 
fore you know it. And I’ll send you some money as soon as 1 
get there, Joanna; see if 1 do not.” 

Joanna Beck hesitated. The laundry business was neces- 
sarily dull at this time of year, and Miss Joanna loved money. 
And although, as she had frankly stated, she was not fond of 
children, yet she thought she might manage to m^ike a decent 
living by -taking charge of her small nephew and niece as well 
as by any other way. 

“ And if anything should happen to ’em, why, we’re all in 
the hands of Providence,” was Miss Joanna Beck’s pious re- 
flection. 

“’Well,” she said aloud, at length, “ 1 don’t mind if I do. 
But mind it ain’t long that you’re gone.” 

So Dora packed up a little bag of the very plainest of her 
belongings, and prepared for the long journey of which, poor 
child, she had so vague an idea. 

All that she knew was that she was going to Basil — to the 
husband whom she had sent away from her with such cruel 
coldness, and whose love she had spurned so often! For now 
it seemed to the poor heart-hungry girl that one of Basil’s 
loving smiles would be worth a life-long pilgrimage — one of 
the tender words she had so despised would fill her yearning 
soul with rapture. 

But when, in the cold, gray dawn of the winter’s morning, 
she crept to the bedside of her little children, to whisper a 
last farewell into their slumbering ears, it seemed as if her 
heart would break.- 

“ Oh, my treasures, my darlings!” she whispered, with the 
strong sobs rending all her frame, in the vain effort to repress 
them, “ how can I go away and leave you? Oh, my babies, 
my little ones!” 

Joanna Beck pulled her violently away with one hand, while 
with the other she shaded the flame of the lamp on the table. 

“ Dolly,” she whispered, “ are you crazy? Do you want to 
rouse ’em up, and have a scene? And the horse and wagon 
are waiting, and you’ve no more than time to get to the de- 
pot.” o 


114 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


But still Dora lingered, with Clasped hands and streaming 
eyes, for one last glance at little Nell, who lay, rosy and 
flushed with slumber, with both her arms thrown around 
Wally’s plump neck. Truly they were as lovely as infant 
cherubs in- theii\ sleep, and the young mother might well be 
pardoned for the gaze of almost adoring tenderness which she 
bent upon their slumbering forms. For a second she fell on 
lier knees in wild, unsyllabled prayer, which was like the 
wrestling of Jacob with the angel, and cheeks all wet with 
tears. And then the little sleepers were alone — and mother- 
less. 

And when the good steamer “ Severns ” sailed from New 
York harbor the next day at noon, Theodora Branchley sat 
among the crowd of steerage passengers, white and silent, and 
half terrified at her own adventurous temerity. But as the 
white caps of the sea flashed beyond the rocky walls of the 
Narrows, and the fresh salt wind lifted the golden tendrils of 
hair from her forehead, she kept reassuring herself by repeat- 
ing, over and over again, in a whisper: 

“lam going to my husband!” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ ADOPTED.” 

“ I MIGHT ha’ knowed it,” said Joanna Beck. 

She was scrubbing her kitchen floor with sleeves rolled up, 
head tied into a pocket-handkerchief, and pail of seething 
soapsuds set close to her — and as she scrubbed she jiondered. 

Down by the Great Rock the first April violets were begin- 
ning to purple the suuny slopes; along the edges of the woods 
the maples hung out their crimson banners, and, in low swampy 
grounds the willow catkins swung to and fro in the early spring 
wind. Through the open window Joanna could hear the shrill 
baby voices of Walter and Helen as they played in the sunny 
chip-yard, and the bluebirds were whistling in the crests of 
the tall Lombardy poplars in front of the door. 

For April had come, with its changing showers and sunshine 
— and Joanna had heard no word from her sister. It was not 
only that the promised remittance had failed to come, but’ 
Theodora had not even taken the trouble to write back to 
Saratoga. And the slender supply of money had given out, 
and the children were ragged and needed new clothes, and 
Miss Joanna’s heart was angry and sore within her as she re- 
luctantly admitted to herself the fact that she had been out- 
generaled by that sly little sister of hers. ^ 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


115 


“ Yes/^ muttered she, scrubbing vigorously away with set 
teeth and frowning brow, “ 1 might ha’ knowed it. And it 
serves me right for being such an everlasting foOl! She never 
meant to come back no more than her fine husband did — and 
here 1 be, with them two young ones on my hands, hard and 
fast for the rest of m'y life. But 1 won’t be made an orphan 
asylum of, not if I know it. It’s a regular swindle, and 1 
ain’t a-goin’ to stand it! Now, then, boy, what’s wanting.^” 

For little Walter’s rosy face had peeped wistfully around 
the corner of the open door, with flaxen curls blown about by 
the wind, and a plentiful tattooing of dirt around his cherry 
mouth. 

“ Please,” said Walter, with his finger in his mouth, “ me 
wants a piece of bread.” 

. “ A piece of bread!” echoed Miss Joanna, scrubbing harder 
than ever. “ Yes, that’s the cry. A piece of bread and a 
drink of milk, and this thing, and that thing, and the t’other 
thing. Something always wanting, and not a minute of peace 
for me!” 

“ Please,” reiterated Walter, raising his small voice a semi- 
tone or so, “ me wants a piece of bread.” 

“ You’ll just wait until I am ready to give it to you,” said 
Joanna. “ And it won’t be just this minute, neither.” 

Little Walter sat down in a docile fashion on the doorstep, 
to wait his grim aunt’s convenience; but just at that moment 
he caught sight of the kitten asleep on the sunny window-sill, 
and, forgetful of all else, he started up with a glad cry and 
ran across the room, leaving the marks of his little ragged 
boots on every board of the newly scrubbed floor. 

“ Well, I never !” said Miss Joanna, scrambling to her 
feet. “ Hain’t I told you again and again, Walter Beck, 
never to stej) on a wet floor?” 

And catching up the child, she gave him an infuriated 
shake, supplemented by a sound cuff on each side of the head. 

“ There,” said she, thrusting him into an odd little three- 
cornered closet which occupied one angle of the room, and 
shutting and fastening the door, “ stay there until you can 
learn to behave yourself properly. 1 ain’t going to mince 
matters any longer with such a beggar’s brat as you!” 

Poor little Walter, hurt and frightened, set up a piteous cry 
in the Egyptian darkness of his prison cell, and Miss Joanna 
set herself to work as energetically as possible to erase the 
marks of the tiny transgressor’s boots. 

“ It’s enough to drive one crazy,” said Joanna Beck, de- 
spairingly. “ And here comes the other young ’un, too!” 


116 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


For little Helen, attracted by the sound of her brother's 
wailings, had trudged around the corner of the wood-house, 
holding a battered doll tightly in her arms, with her faded 
sun-bonnet hanging by its knotted strings down her back, and 
the yellow hair tangled over her great wondering eyes. 

“ Where’s Wally?” she demanded, with a stamp of her 
foot. “ Me want Wally.” 

“ Don’t you dare to step on my clean floor, or I’ll skin you 
alive!” said Joanna, heedless of the question propounded. 

But just at that minute Walter succeeded in bursting oj^en 
the closet door, which was secured only by a ruinous wooden 
button, and stood there, beautiful, rebellious, and tear-stained. 

“ Nelly!” he called out, piteously, outstretching his arms 
to his only friend, “ Nelly!” 

And little Helen, heedless of her aunt’s threat, ran across 
the room to him, and thrust the doll into hisjlace, as if to 
comfort him, while she threw both arms around his neck aud 
mingled her sobs and tears with his. 

Poor little forsaken wretches, they had called plaintively for 
their “ mamma! mamma!” until the word had dropped, for- 
gotten, from their lips; they had cried themselves to sleep 
night after night, and wakened with a vague sense of some- 
thing gone and lacking from their lives, which, in their child- 
philosophy, they were unable to explain. Aud it was a pitiful 
sight to all the soft-hearted mothers of the neighborhood as 
they drove by, to see the little' twins sitting hand in hand on 
the sunny door-sill, or playing in the road, with hair all blown 
about and hands empurpled with cold. 

Miss Joanna was wiping the soapsuds from her hands to ex- 
ecute prompt vengeance on these two tiny rebels, when the 
rattle of wheels up the road distracted her attention for a 
minute. 

“ It’s a lady and gentleman,” said Miss Joanna, looking 
out of the window, “ in a one-horse shay. Bless us, whatever 
can they want? And, as true as I live, they’re stor)ping 
here!” 

She made haste to unpin her dress, roll down her sleeves, 
and unfasten the handkerchief from around her head, before 
she went to the front door. 

‘‘ Does Miss Beck live here?” said a pale, sweet-faced lady 
who sat in the chaise, all wrapped in cashmere shawls, balmy 
though the April morning was, while the gentleman at her 
side busied himself with the reins. 

“ That’s me, ma’am, at your service,” said Joanna, drop- 
ping her lowest courtesy. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


iir 


“ Indeed!^' said the lady. “ I am Mrs. Cheswick.^^ 

“ Pleased to see you, ma'am. Pm sure," said Miss Joanna, 
with a second courtesy. “ Won't you walk in?" 

The lady complied with the invitation, saying as she did so: 

“ 1 have just come to Saratoga to drink "the spring waters, 
and I have been recommended to you as a laundress." 

“ Much obliged, ma'am, to them as spoke a good word for 
me," said Joanna, secretly elated at the prospect of business. 

Mrs. dies wick looked around the uninviting room with a 
shudder. How was it possible, she asked herself, that people 
could live all the year round in such a dreary place as this? 
And just then the sound of a smothered sob caught her ear. 

“ Is there a child here?" she asked, glancing around with 
some curiosity. 

“Two of 'em, worse luck," said Miss Joanna, grimly, as 
she opened the door of the adjoining room, where the newly 
scrubbed floor was steaming, and little Walter stood in the 
three-cornered cupboard like a tiny statuette in its niche, with 
blue, long-lashed eyes, hair all burnished with golden gleams, 
and cheeks stained with tears and dirt — while Helen sat on the 
floor at his feet, persistently poking the battered doll against 
him, as if it were some amulet of consolation and comfort. 

“Oh! how lovely!" cried out the lady, enthusiastically. 
“ Clarence! Clarence! do come and look at these beautiful 
children! La Vecchio would delight in copying them for 
cherubs." 

“ They are pretty little elves enough," said Mr. Cheswick, 
who stood in the door- way, laughing. 

“ Handsome is as handsome does," remarked Miss Beck, 
austerely. “ And they're a dreadful charge to a lone creetur 
like me." 

“ But aren't you afraid of the dear little things taking cold 
in this damp room?" questioned the lady. Miss Beck gave a 
contemptuous snort of negation. 

“Cold, indeed!" said she; “they never take nothing, 
ma'am! Every other child in the neighborhood had scarleL 
fever and measles last winter, and these young 'uns came off 
scot free, if you'll believe, me, ma'am. Oh, no, they won't 
take cold!" 

“ Whose children are they?" asked Mrs. Cheswick, who 
had knelt down on the floor and held out both hands to the 
little boy. 

“ Well, ma'am, it ain't a pleasant story to tell," said 
Joanna; “ but they're my sister's children. And she's de- 
serted 'em, ma'am, and left 'em on my hands; and, 1 don't 


118 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


know but 1 shall have to turn 'em over to the poorhouse,.for 
it^s all I can do to provide for myself, let alone a parcel of 
great hungry children, as wears out shoes and clothes enough 
to Irighten one.'’’ 

“^Deserted them!” cried the lady. “ Oh, poor, lovely lit- 
tle lambs! And their own mother, too! Oh, she must have 
had a heart of stone!” 

“ That’s just what I say myself, ma’am,” said Joanna. 

” But where is the father?” asked Mr. Cheswick. 

“ They ain’t got none, sir,” said Joanna, averting her face, 
primly. “ He run off before she did.” 

The tears gushed into Mrs. Ches wick’s eyes; she bent ca- 
ressingly over little Walter who, attracted by her sweet voice 
and winning smile, had walked straight up to her and was now 
timidly stroking down the pile of her velvet cloak. 

“Poor child,” said she. “But surely, surely, you would 
not send a child like this to the poorliouse V* 

“ I’m afeard I shall be obliged to, ma’am,” said Joanna. 
“ Poor folks can’t pick and choose like their betters. Walter 
Beck, keep your hands off the lady’s cloak!” 

Oh, don’t stop him; he is doing no harm, dear little rose- 
bud,” said Mrs. Cheswick, passing one arm caressingly around 
the plump little figure. “ Clarence, do look at his eyes — 
aren’t they lovely? And such a complexion as he has!” 

“ 1 think it might be a little improved by soap and water,” 
said Mr. Cheswick, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

' “ Walter, come here this minute and have your face 
washed,” cried Joanna, clutching at the wash-rag that hung 
over the sink. But Walter demurred to this proceeding, 
which was invariably connected in his mind with rasped eye- 
lids, nose rubbed relentlessly up the wrong way, and brown 
soap smarting in his mouth. 

“No!” said Walter, sturdily, as he nestled yet closer to his 
new friend, in whom he instinctively recognized a tower of 
strength. “ Me stay here!” 

* “ Come here at once!” shrilly ejaculated his aunt. 

“Me loonH!^^ deliberately answered Walter. “Mo like 
lady — me stay here.” 

Mrs. Cheswick clasped him to her bosom. 

“ Oh, Clarence!” said she, “ only hear him! The dear lit- 
tle fellow! Oh, Clarence, if I might only adopt him and take 
him away with me!” 

Mr. Cheswick uttered a long, low whistle. 

“ My dear Fanny,” said he, “ are you crazy?” 

“But why not?” pleaded Mrs. Cheswick. “ He is so beau- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


119 


tiful, and so friendless; and 1 dare say we could have him un- 
conditionally.” 

“ Oh, certainly!” chimed in the delighted Miss Joanna, 

“ and glad of the chance.” 

” He should never tease or annoy you in the least, per- 
sisted Mrs. Cheswick, “and it would make me so very, very 
happy! Dear Clarence, do say yes!” 

Now Mrs. Clarence Cheswick was an heiress in her own 
right, and a fanciful invalid into the bargain, and Mr. Clar- 
ence Cheswick was a good deal in the habit of letting her have 
her own way on all occasions. And when she looked so plead- 
ingly up into his face and uttered the words, “ Dear Clarence, 
do say yes,” with such beseeching emphasis, there was noth- 
ing left for him but to say, “ Yes.” 

“Get his things,” said Mrs. Cheswick, radiantly. “Tie 
on his hat, please. We"ll take him away with us.” 

So that Miss Beck not only gained a good customer upon 
this sunshiny April morning, but succeeded in getting rid of 
baby Walter. She bundled up his worn-out little clothes as 
rapidly as possible, lest the fine lady should change her mind, 
and carried them out to the carriage. 

“ They Ye but poor duds, ma’am,” said she, with an apolo- 
getic courtesy; “ but you’ll please to remember I’m very poor, 
and can’t dress the little darling as I’d like.” 

And she put up her face to kiss the child good-bye as she 
spoke, but Walter pushed her away. 

“ Go ’way, Joanna!” said he, with energy. “ Wally don’t 
love Joanna.” 

Mr. Cheswick burst out laughing.. 

“ A pretty young eaglet you have undertaken to rear!” said 
he to his wife. “ 1 wish you joy of your bargain, that’s all.” 

“ I don’t blame the child,” said Mrs. Cheswick, smiling, in 
spite of Miss Beck’s very evident discomfiture, as they drove 
away. 

Joanna went back into the kitcheen, and relieved her mind 
by boxing Helen’s ears, as that deserted little maiden sat be- 
wailing her solitary condition on the floor. 

“ I^oiu will you hold your tongue?” demanded Joanna. “ I 
wish to goodness Yhey’d taken you too!” 

“ I want Walter,” sobbed Helen, beating her doll’s head 
against the wall. “ Where is Walter?” 

“ The Black Man has eaten him up,” said Miss Joanna, . 
with an angry stamp of her foot; “ and he’ll eat you up too, 
if you don’t ^uit bellowing.” 

Helen stopped crying for a moment, with a half-frightened 


130 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


look around her. But apparently she came to the conclusion 
that the Black Man, in all his vague terror, could not be much 
worse than her aunt Joanna, and resumed her lamentations 
on a rather lower key than before. 

But Miss Joanna went back to her house- work, secretly 
exultant. 

“I’ve got rid of one of ’em,” said she to herself, “ and it 
shall go hard but I’ll get rid of th& other one. And I guess 
now’s as good a time as ever to accept Cousin Seba Sniffen’s 
offer to go to Vermont and help her in her factory boardiu’- 
house. I’ll just go away quietly some night, and take care 
not to let nobody know where I’m bound for. For I don’t 
relish the idea -of having Dora’s young ones returned on my 
hands. If I get good homes for ’em, that’s all she’s any 
right to expect of me, and more- too. ” 

As Joanna Beck moved briskly about the room, intent on 
various household cares, her mind was as busy as her footsteps 
in contriving some method of ridding herself of Sir Basil 
Branchley’s helpless little daughter. 

“ I wonH drag that child around the country with me, that’s 
flat!” said she, grinding her teeth together. 

Just then the rattling of wagon- wheels over the stony road 
attracted her attention, and, peeping furtively through the 
slats of the milk-room window, she saw Mrs. Eeuben Hallo- 
well drive by, in the scarlet shawl and green velvet bonnet, 
with another village gossip seated sn ugly at her side. 

“ It’s a good idea!” said Miss Beck, with a grim smile. 
“ I’ll try Reuben Hallowell.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

LITTLE HELEJiT. 

Miss Joanna Beck lost no unnecessary time in donning 
her own walking attire, and tying on little Helen’s blue velvet 
hood andjcape, from which the moth-eaten edges of swan’s-down 
had long ago dropped away; for she fully understood how 
much easier it would be to work upon honest Reuben Hallo- 
well’s feelings in the absence of his wife. 

“ Come, child,” said she, brusquely, to the little girl; 
“ don’t drag back so. We’re going to take a walk. ” 

Helen looked up with a sudden brightening of her baby 
face. 

“ Doin’ to find Wally?” asked she, eagerly. 

“ Yes,” nodded her aunt, who did not regard it necessary 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


121 


to adhere to the truth when children were in question; “ weh’e 
going to find Wally. Step lively, now, or may be hefil be 
gone.^^ 

It was a long walk over the muddy roads to the Hallowell 
farm-house, but Miss Joanna abridged the route somewhat by 
means of sundry field-paths and by-lanes, and reached the 
house in about half an hour, with her temper nowise sweet- 
ened by having had to carry little Helen more than half the 
way. 

“ I don’t see what children was made for,^^ said the spin- 
ster, sourly. 

Reuben Hallowell himself was at the back of the house .split- 
ting wood , as his unexpected visitors approached. He dropped 
the ax, and came, with a broad smile, to greet them. 

Little Helen laughed aud crowed, and held out both hands 
as he took her in his arms. 

“ Halloo, little one!^^ said he. “ AinH this ^ere a stroke 
of good luck, though? And where’s Wally?” 

“ Wally gone,” said Helen, shaking her curly head. “ All 
gone!” 

“ Eh?” said Reuben, looking inquiringly at Joanna. 

“ It’s true enough,” said she. “ He /las gone.” 

“ Where?” said Reuben. “ You ain’t got news of Dolly, 
have you? She ain’t come back for the children?” 

“ No,” answered Joanna, tartly; “ she ain’t come, nor she 
ain’t likely to. And / ain’t going to stand this sort of thing 
any longer, so I’ve adopted Walter out, and I’m going to do 
the same by Helen. Dm going away to live, myself, and I 
can’t be bothered with a pack of children.” 

“ Where’s Wally?” eagerly questioned Reuben, who had 
grown fond of the lovely, desert^ little ones. 

“ That’s neither here nor there,” said Joanna, stiffly. 
“ He’s got a good home, and that’s enough. The question 
is, now, what is to become of the girl?” 

Reuben had seated himself on the doorstep with Helen on 
his knee, and was surreptitiously regaling her with barley 
drops, while Miss Joanna stood in the wood-yard with arms 
akimbo and face flushed with her walk. 

“Reuben Hallowell,” said she, insinuatingly, “don’t ^ou 
want her?” 

Honest Reuben nearly dropped Helen ofl his knee at the 
start he gave. 

“ I?” said he. “ Good land o’ Goshen, what would Almiry 
say?” 


122 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“She’s a pretty child enough/’ said Joanna; “and she’s 
real fond o’ you, Reuben, and always was,” 

“ Bless her dear little heart!” said Reuben, stroking down 
the mangy velvet cap with a loving hand, “ so she is.” 

“ And Mrs. Hallo well couldn’t help liking her, now could 
she?” urged Jomina. 

“ Nobody could',” said Reuben, emphatically, as he thrust 
anotlier crystal of sugared sweetness into Helen’s wide-open 
mouth. 

“ And she’d ’liven up the house wonderful, wouldn’t she?” 

“Ah!” uttered Reuben, with a groan. “ Pretty dear! I 
only wish she was mine!” 

“ She might be, if you chose to make her so,” said Miss 
Joanna, artfully. “Just fancy how cheerful it would be to 
have her rimnin’ to meet you every time you came in from 
the lots. ” 

Reuben’s eyes sparkled. 

“ I declare,” said he, “ I’ve a mind to try it. Tell me, 
Nell, would you like to stay here, along o’ me, for good and 
all?” 

Helen smiled uncomprehendingly up into his face; but 
Reuben Hallo well accepted it as an affirmative. 

“ Then, by jingo! you shall,” said he, slapping his hand 
upon his thigh. “ We’ll try the experiment, any way; won’t 
we, Nell?”- 

“ Shall 1 leave her here now?” said Joanna, who was furtive- 
ly watching the changing expression of his face. “ I suppose 
it’s as well now as any time.” 

“ Yes,” said Reuben, bravely. 

~ Reuben carried the child in, set her up in a chair by the 
table, and gave her the dinner-bell and two or three clothes- 
l^ins to play with, and stood looking at her with a sense of ad- 
miring proprietorship and delight which would have afforded 
an artist the idea for an excellent picture. 

“1 swan to gracious!” he said to himself, “she is like 
Dolly! Dolly’s poor little deserted child! God help her! 
she’s as bad as an orphan! And if only Almiry takes a fancy 
to her we can be as sniig as anything here. Can’t we, Nell?” 

But, almost in the same second, he started and looked around 
nervously, for the sound of old Bonny’s well-known tramp on 
the causeway dissipated all his dreams of independence. Al- 
mira was coming back — and with her were returning chains 
and fetters. 

She came in presently, rubbing her hands. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


123 


“ Miller wasn^t to home/" said she, “ so I told — Mercy 
on us! vvho"s this?’' 

She turned sharply upon the child sitting at the table. Lit- 
tle Helen, frightened by the abruptness of the action, put up 
her lip and began to cry. 

“ Don"t fret, chickie,"" said Reuben, patting her head. 
“Why, it"s little Nell, wife — don"t you remember little 
Nell?"" 

“ Dora Beck’s child?"" 

“ Yes,” confessed Reuben. “ Dora Beck"s child."" 

“ And what — in the name of goodness — is Dora Beck"s 
child doing here?"" demanded Mrs. Hallo well, in accents of 
exasperation. 

“ l"ve adopted her,’" said Reuben, flinging himself head 
foremost upon the horns of the dilemma. 

“ You"ve — adopted— her?"" repeated Mrs. Hallowell, ap- 
parently unable to believe her own ears. 

“ Yes,"" nodded Reuben, wiping the beads of sweat from 
his brow. “You see, Almiry, Miss Joanna"s goin" away, 
and — "" 

“ You’ve adopted her, have you?"’ said Mrs. Hallowell, 
grimly. “ Then I’ll ww-adopt her. Do you suppose, Reuben 
Hallowell, that I"m going to have Dora Beck’s children 
around here under-foot? If you do you’re ve-ry much mis- 
taken. "" 

As she spoke, she was tying on poor Helen’s hood and cape, 
and in another minute she had lifted her into the farm- wagon, 
which was not yet detached from the horse, and climbed u]:) 
beside her. 

“ Almiry,” cried out the discomfited husband, “ where are 
you going?” 

“ I’m going to take this child back to Joanna Beck again,” 
said Mrs. Hallowell, speaking as if every word were an explod- 
ing powder-cracker. 

“ Yes; but, Almiry — ” 

The rest of the sentence was lost in the rattle of the ancient 
wheels, as Mrs. Reuben Hallowell clattered at a Jehu-like pace 
out of the barn-yard into the road. 

And when Miss Joanna Beck reached home she found the 
Hallowell equipage waiting opposite the green-painted front 
door, with Mrs. Reuben sitting as straight as a board, an'd 
poor little Helen crouched on the floor of the wagon, looking 
up at her as a fascinated wren might stare at a rattlesnake. 
She came dubiously to the gate. 

“Oh! you’re here, are you?” said the redoubtable Almira. 


124 : 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Here’s your young ’un. Lift her down, quick! ’cause I’m 
in a hurry.” 

“ I thought Reuben wanted to adopt her,” said Joanna, 
faintly. 

“ I don’t!” said Mrs. Hallo well; “ and that’s more to the 
purpose. And the next time you want to get rid of your 
orphans, Joanna Beck, don’t bring ’em to 7ny house.” 

And she drove away, with the blissful consciousness that 
she had routed her old enemy, horse and foot. 

Little Helen, cold and frightened, began to cry piteously. 
Miss Beck mechanically took her by the shoulder and led her 
into the house. 

“ Here,” said she, sharply, setting a bowl of bread and 
milk before her. “ Eat — and drink, and don’t be all day 
about it, for I’ve another journey to take before night with 
you.” 

For Miss Joanna had decided that, since Mrs. Reuben Hallo- 
well so resolutely declined the child, there was no other refuge 
left for her than the poor-house. 

Mrs. Minkley, the matron of the poor-house, was just sitting 
down to her evening cup of tea, when Miss Beck was an- 
nounced at the door. Now it so chanced that Mrs. Minkley 
and Joanna Beck had worked side by side in a New England 
corset factory nearly twenty years ago, and the plump matron 
at once recognized her old companion. 

“ Sit down, Joanna, sit down and have a cup of tea,” said 
she, hospitably. “ Betsy Briggs ” — to the toothless old wom- 
an who stood grinning and mouthing in the door- way — “ bring 
some more hot toast. And I s’pose you’re married, and this 
is your dear little girl,” chuckling Helen good-humoredly un- 
der the chin. 

“No, I ain’t married,” said Miss Beck, tartly, “ and this 
ain’t my little girl, dear or otherwise. It’s a deserted child 
— my sister’s, Mrs. Minkley, between you and me, as I’m 
forced to bring here, not having no other home for her. ” 

“You don’t mean to say you’re bringing her here to leave 
in the house?” said Mrs. Minkley, in open-mouthed surprise. 

“ Yes, I am,” nodded Joanna. “ Poor folks can’t be 
choosers, Mrs. Minkley, and I’m driven to this in spite of my 
wishes.” 

“ Poor, pretty little dear,” said Mrs. Minkley, looking com- 
passionately at Helen, who stood, half asleep, holding on to 
Miss Joanna’s cotton-gloved finger. “ Did you say she was 
your sister^ s child?” ' 

Miss Beck nodded silently. 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


125 


“ The — 2 :)retty sister^s?’’ 

“ Folks called Theodora good-looking/^ said the spinster, 
rigidly. 

“Dear, dear, what a pity!"’ said Mrs. Minkley, inferring 
all sorts of sad {)ossibilities from Miss Joanna’s lugubrious 
tones. “ Well, this is a strange world, ain’t it? But drink 
yourjcup of tea, Joanna. And here’s a seed cookey for the 
child. Poor little dear, she looks clean dragged out. How 
old is she?” 

“ I’m sure 1 don’t know,” said Miss Joanna. “ Two years 
old, or thereabouts, I calculate.” 

“ She’s large for two years,” said the nmttron, patting the 
drooping curly head. And what did you tell me her name 
was?” 

“Helen Beck.” 

“Beck?”' 

The matron looked on inquiringly. 

“ Branchley, her father’s name was,” grudgingly admitted 
Joanna. “But it won’t never do her any good.” 

“ Where is he now?” 

“ Nobody knows,” said Joanna, mysteriously. 

“ Her mother was — married to him, 1 suppose?” hazarded 
Mrs. Minkley. 

“ I suppose so,” smd Joanna, sourly. 

“ Then why don’t you put it so?” said Mrs. Minkley. “ I 
shall register her as Helen Beck Branchley. The Board will 
meet to-morrow, and in the meantime 1 can make her up a 
bed in the children’s ward, by Silly Gertrude.. Silly Gertrude 
is always good to little children. ” 

And that night Sir Basil Branchley’s little daughter slept 
under the roof of the poor-house, with Silly Gertrude chanting 
monotonous songs at her side, and the matron’s coarse plaid 
shawl laid over her for a coverlid. For they were scant of 
bedding at the poor-house, and this year’s Board had a mania 
on the subject of economy. 

Miss Joanna Beck went back to the dreary old house under 
the poplars, much elated at the success of her diplomacy. 

She called at the village to negotiate a sale of her rickety old 
furniture to a second-hand dealer, bequeathed the good will of 
her laundressing business to the second-hand dealer’s wife, 
who was a rival of her own in a small way, and then went 
home and packed up her few belongings, herself carrying the 
box as far as the railway station. And then she left the key 
of the door under the left-hand’ corner of the door-stone. 

“ It won’t be so easy for folks to track me now,” chuckled 


126 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Miss Joanna to herself, as she sat in the train, speeding away 
to the far North. “ Dora and Dora's children may look out 
for themselves now. " 


CHAPTEK XXL 
“he is so changed!" 

“ He is so changed!" sighed Lady Branchley. 

She stood by one of the boudoir windows, looking sadly out 
upon the quadrangle of the court, where a cool fountain was 
playing in the dusk of the April evening, and a solitary figure 
paced to and fro, with the fiery spark of a cigar-end marking 
his whereabouts. 

Lady Augusta Trente rose from her piano and went to the 
casement also, leaning one hand lightly on Lady Branchley's 
shoulder. 

“ Yes," said she, slowly, “ he is changed." 

“ So full of life and spirits once," said Lady Branchley; 

^0 distrait and silent now. Nothing interests him; noth- 
ing attracts his attention for more than a few minutes at a 
time. Even the sale of the Vendale property, which would 
once have roused him into the eagerest excitement and inter- 
est, fails to move him now. ‘Let Julian look after it,' ho 
said, when Angevine told him of the sale. ‘ It matters little 
to me who buys in the old property.' " 

“ Yes," assented Lady Augusta, “ it is very, very sad." 

“ It's like a spell— an evil charm!" cried out Lady Branch- 
ley, clasping her hands. And, throwing a shawl around her 
shoulders, she went out into the soft twilight. 

“ Basil!" said she, gently. 

The young baronet started at the sound of her voice; she 
put her arm lightly through his. 

“ Basil," said she, “ of what are you thinking? Will you 
not share your sorrows with your mother?'* 

^ He smiled bitterly. 

“ I can hardly expect you to sympathize imich with me, 
mother," said he. 

“Why not, my son?"’ 

“ 1 was thinking of my wife." 

Lady Branchley could not repress a slight shudder. 

“ Oh, my boy," said she, “ what would I not give if that 
episode of your life could be erased from the past! Oh, that 
wretched American trip— what a harvest of sorrow it has 
caused us all!" 

“ I can not agree with you there, mother," said Sir Basil, 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 127 

coldly. “ For me that episode of my life, as you call it, is 
dearest and most precious of all its record 

“ Basil r 

“ 1 am speaking from my heart, mother,'^ he said. “ And 
I may as well confess to you at once that I am very uneasy 
about my wife.^^ 

“ Because she does not write?^^ 

“ Because she does not write. And 1 think 1 shall go back 
to the United States for her.^’ 

“ Is that necessary, Basil 

“ I have written to her twice, mother; 1 have received no 
answer whatsoever.'^ 

“ Perhaps she has never received your letters," hazarded 
Lady Branchley. 

And Lady Augusta Trente, who from the open window could 
hear every word that was uttered, shrunk back behind the 
draperies with a guilty flush upon her cheek. For she knew 
—none better-r-what had become of the loving, pleading let- 
ters that had never reached Sir Basil Branchley's American 
wife. 

“ That is hardly within the limits of possibility, mother," 
said Sir Basil. “ One letter might have miscarried— but not 
two." 

“ Basil " — Lady Branchley looked intently up into his face 
— “ has it never occurred to your mind that — that — this wild, 
impulsive creature of whom you tell me may have ceased to 
-care for a husband who is so widely separated from her?" 

A deeper flush still burned on Lady Augusta Trente's face, 
as she sat silently behind the curtains, and she listened intent- 
ly for the answer that came so quickly: 

•“ You do not know her, mother!" 

“ Then why does she take no notice of your letters?" 

lie knitted his brows darkly, remembering Dora's thousand 
freaks and caprices. 

‘‘ Mother," said he, “ I have not done wisely in leaving her 
by Iierself — a mere child in all the ways of the world, a novice 
in its simplest customs. I have been still more to blame in 
not returning instantly to America for her — and all that now 
remains to mo is to go immediately to her." 

“ Basil! And leave me in the first bitterness of my grief!'*’ 
wailed Lady Branchley. 

“ !She is my wife, mother." 

“ But surely — surely she can come to you." 

“ 1 have waited long enough for that — too long!" cried Sir 
Basil, passionately. 


128 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Can not Julian go?"’ 

“ She might hide^^herself away from him in girlish terror; 
she might resent the interference of any stranger in our do-, 
mestic affairs/" said Sir Basil Branchley. “ She is as sensitive 
as any ..d^olian harp. I tell you, mother, that I, and none else, 
must go to her. I wish to Heaven that 1 had yielded to her 
entreaties and brought her with me when 1 came; but I 
dreaded the long and necessarily hurried journey for her and 
the children."" 

Lady BraDchley"s eyes softened. 

“The children!"" repeated she. “ Your children, Basil! 
Oh! how I should like to see them!"" 

Lady Augusta Treute looked questioningly up in Lady 
Branchley"s face as she re-entered the drawing-room, in which 
the old butler had just placed lights. 

“ Is he going back to America?"" she asked. 

Lady Branchley nodded. 

“ After that uncouth farmer "s daughter, whom he has been 
mad enough to marry!"" 

“ What else can he do, Augusta?"" pleaded the mother, half 
terrified at the bitterness of the young beauty "s words. “ She 
is his wife — the mother of his children."" 

“ A girl of the same grade as our dairy-maids,"" cried Lady 
Augusta. “A creature who, by his own admission, can 
scarcely read or write."" 

“ Augusta!"" 

“ There can be no doubt but that she has already consoled 
herself with some other admirer,’" went on Lady Augusta, 
passionately. “ Why does Basil not leave her in the woods 
where he found her, and avail himself of the good oflices of 
the Divorce Court?"" 

Lady Branchley looked,, at her adopted daughter in a sort of 
terror. Lady Augusta began to perceive that she had gone 
too far and checked herself wtih a forced laugh. 

“ I can not speak calmly on the subject,"" said she, “ for I 
feel so deeply. All this must be such a disappointment for 
you, dear Lady Branchley, after all your soaring hopes and 
aspirations. But, of course, we must make the best of it 
now."" 

“ Yes, we must make the best of it,"" sighed poor Lady 
Branchley; for Basil had been her favorite child, and it seemed 
to her as if his future were shrouded in clouds and darkness. 
With her aristocratic birth and tendencies, her son"s rash mar- 
riage with this humbly born American girl seemed little short 
of ruin. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


129 


The wild honeysuckles wel’e just hanging their garlands of 
pink bloom over the woods of Ballston, when Sir Basil Branch- 
ley’s arrival was registered in one of the hotels. He, took a 
carriage and drove at once to Eaglescliff Hall. 

The front of the house was all shut up, the closed blinds 
seeming to stare at him like the sightless orbs of a blind man. 
He rang at the door-bell, and the sound of the peal, echoing 
through the silent rooms, came back to him like a mocking 
cry; and still it never occurred to him that the house was de- 
serted. 

He rang again, and in a minute or two a blear-eyed old 
woman, with a huge key in her hand, came trudging up from 
the direction of the boat-house. 

“Is it to look at the house you’re wanting?” said she, 
shading her eyes from the intense May sunshine with one 
wrinkled hand. “ Is it a permit from the agent you’ve got?” 

“ I want to see Lady — I mean Mrs. Branchley,” said Sir 
Basil, impatiently. “ Where are all the servants? Why don’t 
some one come to the door?” 

“ What’s your will?” demanded the old woman, with the 
other hand back of her ear. 

“Mrs. — Branch — ley!” shouted Sir Basil. “ — she— at 
home?” 

“Mrs. Branchley.” 

“ The lady who lives here,” explained Sir Basil, beginning 
to think that his interlocutor was absolutely idiotic. 

“ There don’t no lady live here,” said the old woman; 
“ the house is empty, and it’s stood empty for six months.” 

Sir Basil’s heart sunk within him. 

“ Where has Mrs. Branchley gone?” he asked. 

“Don’t know,” said the old woman, indifferently. “Me 
and my niece, we lives in the basement, and takes care of the 
house. We’re strangers hereabouts. But, Mr. Beetles, sir — 
the 'agent at Ballston — he can may be tell you what your 
a-wantin’ to find out. I don’t know nothing about none of 
the folks as ever lived here.” 

And she burrowed back into some subterranean hole under 
the building, leaving Sir Basil standing on the steps, with a 
deadly chill at his heart, although the bland May sunshine 
wrapped him around as with a mantle. 

He re-entered his hired hack, and drove back to Ballston. 
Mr. Beetles, the agent, greeted him with the respect due to a 
man who had always paid his rent promptly and without ques- 
tion. Mrs. Branchley! oh, yes! Mrs, Branchley had returned 
him the key in November last; he could not be quite certain 


130 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


about the date, but knew it was past the middle of the month. 
Mrs. Branchley had gone away, leaving her address with no 
one but the gardener, who was to forward her letters and 
notes. Where was the gardener? Mr. Beetles was very sorry, 
but the man was dead. Had died of typhoid fever, in Janu- 
ary. Had Mr. Beetles any idea where tiding^ of Mrs. Branch- 
ley could be gained? No, Mr. Beetles had not. 

Sir Basil went straight to the railway station and took a 
ticket for Saratoga. 

“ The most natural thing in the world, said he to himself. 
“ Of course, she has got lonely and homesick, poor little dar- 
ling, and gone back to her old home. I only wonder I never 
thought of that before. 

And as the train steamed along his heart began to rise with 
elasticity from beneath the dead weight which had hitherto 
bowed it down like lead. 

Dora had pointed out to him the old farm-house in the first 
days of her exultant bridehood, as they drove along the bowery 
roads in the direction of Saratoga Lake. 

“ Does it seem as if I had ever lived in that horrid old 
place?’^ she had exclaimed, radiantly. And Sir Basil had 
looked around with a smile at the ragged old poplar- trees, and 
the wilderness of dusty lilac bushes that surrounded the un- 
painted wooden house, and had forgotten it the next moment. 

He recognized it, however, with a curious unpleasant thrill 
through his veins, as he called to the driver of the railway 
hack to stop. 

“ This is the place, said he; “ Miss Beckys. 

“ AW right, sir,^" said the man, scrambling down from his 
seat, and beating a vigorous tattoo on the shrunk panels of 
the door with the butt-end of his whip. He stopped a second 
or two to listen, and then repeated the mimic cannonade. 

“ Ifil make ^em hear,^"" said he; “ or ITl know the reason 

whyr^ 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE SEARCH. 

Sir Basil Branchley sprung out of the carriage and list- 
ened with the intensest eagerness. 

“ Knock again, said he, and the man thundered away on 
the door yet a third time; but there was no more answer than 
had returned itself from the deserted rooms of Eaglescliffe 
Hall. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


131 


“ Pm blessed if I don^fc believe the house is empty I” said 
the man, desisting at last, with a puzzled face. 

“ Impossible said Sir Basil, impatiently. “ Go around to 
the back of the house. 

The man plunged through the tall weeds which had already 
sprung up at the side of the house, and made his way around 
to the back door. Presently he returned, shaking his head. 

“ Empty as Mother Hubbard -s cupboard, sir,'" said he. 

“ Have you knocked?" 

“ Pounded my knuckles off, sir," answered the- man, look- 
ing dolorously at his hands. “ And then I loosed one of the 
window fastenings with the blade of my knife, and climbed in. 
House all empty^sir, and not a creetur there but rats and 
mice." 

Sir Basil Branchley's f ace had grown dea-^hly pale as he stood 
leaning against the fence. 

“ P'r'aps the neighbors might know something about 'em," 
suggested the driver. 

Sir Basil grasped eagerly at the idea. 

“We will inquire," said he. 

The woman who lived in the nearest farm-house came out 
at the. summons of the hackman, a slender, freckled little 
woman, in a faded calico dress, and arms steaming from the 
wash-tub. which she had just left. 

“ AVas it Miss Joanna Beck you was inquiring-^fter, sir?" 
said she. “ She's moved. Gone away somewhere Xo the 
North." 

“But she must have left an address," said Sir Basil,, 
eagerly. 

“ She didn't, sir," said the woman. “ Miss Joanna never 
did things like other folks. She went away in the night, 
quite sudden like." 

“Hid — did her sister go with her?" Sir Basil spoke the 
words as if they pained him. 

“ The married sister, do you mean, sir? Dora, as married 
the rich Englishman?" 

Sir Basil inclined his head with unconscious hauteur. 

“ Oh, no. She ran away long ago!" 

“ Ran away?" Sir Basil's firm, white teeth met with a 
grinding sound. 

“ Hadn't yer heard?" said the woman, taking up a year-old 
child which had toddled out after her, and was now pulling at 
her skirts. “ Oh, yes, it was in the winter some time. She 
went away quite unexpected like, and left the children on Miss 
Joanna’s hands." 


132 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Where did she go?'' asked Sir Basil, feeling as if the 
whole world were drifting away from beneath his feet. 

“We don't know, sir," said the woman, with the vulgar 
enjoyment which the lower classes invariably derive from the 
imparting of unpleasant news. “ Nobody knows, not even 
Miss Joanna." 

“ Has she left no trace behind?" cried out the young hus- 
band. 

“ No, sir, none," the woman volubly made answer; “ and 
the neighbors, sir, they think it was to be rid of the children 
as she went. Miss Joanna was in a pretty taking when she 
found out they was left on her hands." 

“ And the children?" questioned Sir Basil, as he leaned, 
deathly pale, against the porch, “ where are they?" 

“ The little boy, sir— Walter, they called him — disappeared 
all of a sudden. 1 asked Miss Joanna what had become of 
him, and she wouldn't answer me nothin', except that he was 
provided for. And Nell, sir, she's in the poor-house. " 

“ miat I” Sir Basil recoiled as if some envenomed arrow 
had struck him to the heart. 

“ Yes, sir, sure enough — in the poor-house," said the wom- 
an. “ And a nice, pretty little girl as ever was. And it does 
seem to me as if Joanna Beck might have tried to keep her 
own sister's (?hild off from the town poor. But the Becks 
always was half heathen." 

“ Where cati I find this place?" asked Sir Basil, in a low, 
unnaturally sounding voice. 

“ The poor-house?" repeated the woman, who had no 
strained ideas of delicacy as to the repetition of the word. 
“ It ain't so very far from here. Just down the road a mile 
or so, then turn off at McCormick's cross-roads, where the 
paper-miir was burned down last February, and it ain't but a 
little ways. Any one can direct you." 

And so, with a sinking heart. Sir Basil Branchley once more 
drove away in the direction indicated by the freckle-faced 
woman. 

“ My God!" he exclaimed, aloud, as he leaned back in the 
carriage and closed his eyes, once more alone, “ is this reality? 
or is it a horrible dream? Was my wife indeed in terrible 
earnest when she vowed to me, with glittering eyes, that I 
should never see her again? Has she carried out her scheme 
of vengeance in this appallingly systematic manner, by desert- 
ing me, and scattering her helpless little children on the face 
of the earth? As there is a Heaven above us, I swear I will 
never forgive her for this!" 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


133 


For Sir Basil Braiichley never for an instant doubted that 
Joanna Beck- had been nothing more than an agent in Theo- 
dora’s diabolical plans. The words which the young wife had 
uttered in the first glow of her unreasoning anger at Eagles- 
cliffe Hall came back to her husband’s memory, freighted 
with terrible meaning, and hardened his heart against her, 
like a wall of adamant. 

lie sat with clinched hands and eyes staring in front of him, 
as the lovely May landscape flitted past the carriage window, 
a perpetually shifting panorama of greening woods, meadows 
all spangled with buttercups and daisies, and lines of cluster- 
ing alders that marked the winding course of tiny brooks. For 
all the notice he took of it, it might have been snow-covered 
glaciers, or tropical forests of Brazil. For Sir Basil Branchley 
saw only the face of his young wife as she' uttered the fatal 
words: “ You will never see me again.” Like the writing of 
sympathetic ink, it had lain invisible in his memory all these 
months, to confront him now with terrible meaning. 

It might have been an hour, or it might have been fifteen 
minutes — Sir Basil Branchley took no note of time — that 
elapsed before the hack drew up in front of a long, low build- 
ing of rough red stone, from which a coat of stucco was peel- 
ing off in blotches. Not a tree or shrub cast its halo of re- 
freshing coolness over the hard-baked ground — not a spear of 
grass carpeted the slope upon which the poor-house stood, but 
the brilliant sunshine of the spring day seemed to draw out 
and magnify every defect. At the rear of the house two or 
three womeh were beating a carpet, and a very old man sat on 
a bench in the sunshine, half asleep, with his chin resting on 
a wooden cane. 

“Eh!” said he, looking up with dim eyes at the sound of 
the hackman’s noisy greeting. “ Speak a little louder, mas- 
ter, please; I’m a little hard of hearing. P’r’aps, if you’ve 
any business, you’d better go in and ask for Mrs. Minkley. 
She’s the matron, Mrs. Minkley is.” 

And, having uttered this speech in a shrill, high-pitched 
voice, the old man settled forward again upon the head of his 
cane, and seemed to lose himself in a sort of waking trance. 

By this time, a frowzy-haired little girl who had seen the 
carriage stop at the door had run to telegraph the news to Mrs. 
Minkley, who was superintending the mixing of a huge kettle 
of kalsomine, in the scullery back of the kitchen; for the 
spring house-cleaning was in full tide of progress at the poor- 
house, and Mrs. Minkley was in her element. 

“ Carriage company?” said Mrs. Minkley, hurriedly letting 


134 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


down the skirts of her dress, and adjusting her black net cap. 
“ And 1 looking like old Sancho! Louisy Jane, run and open 
the reception-room windows, and tell the company Til be in 
directly. 

Sir Basil Branchley was walking up and down the little 
musty-smelling room in an agony of impatience when Mrs. 
Minkley courtesied herself in. 

“ Are you the matron of this place?^^ asked he, turning 
around upon her, with an abruptness that startled her, as she 
afterward remarked, “ e^en-a-most into one of her fits of pal- 
pitations.^'’ 

“Yes, sir,^’ said Mrs. Minkley, laying her hand upon her 
heart, and secretly wondering at the princely height* of the 
stranger and his manner of calm authority. 

“ In that case, you can tell me whether there is a child here 
named Helen Branchley.'’^ 

“ To be sure there is, sir,’^ said Mrs. Minkley.. forgetting 
all about “ the palpitations in her awakening interest; “ the 
dearest, sweetest, prettiest little — 

“ She is my daughter!’^ said Sir Basil, abruptly. “ Let 
me see her at once. 

“ I — Tm sure I beg pardon,” fluttered Mrs. Minkley, “ but 
Miss Joanna Beck, as was the person she was left here by, 
told me as her parents had both — ” 

She stopped here, scarcely daring, under the keen light of 
Sir Basil Branchley^s eye, to utter the word that was trem- 
bling upon her lip. But the young Englishman’s slow, lan- 
guid tones filled up the hiatus at once. 

'^Deserted her,^’ said he. “You were told falsely, good 
woman. It is her mother only that has deserted her!” 

“ Poor lamb!” cried Mrs. Minkley. “ But you needn’t be 
afeard but what she’s had the best of care and treatment 
here. ” 

“ Take me to her at onoe,” said Sir Basil. 

“ I’ll send for her directly,” said Mrs. Minkley, courtesy- 
ing, and smoothing down the stiff folds of her newly starched 
apron. “ She’s out in the medder with Silly Gertrude. 
Louisy Ja — a — ane!” 

“ I will go to her,” said Sir Basil, imperiously. 

“ Dear me, sir; to think that you should take the trouble!” 
fluttered the matron. “ But it’s only a step or so, just this 
way. If you’ll please to excuse the scrubbing-women and the 
week’s wash, as had ought to be out long ago, if all these 
women wasn’t out of their heads on account of its bein’ house- 
cleanin’ time!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


135 


AdcI, with a curious sensation as if he were walking in a 
dream and knew exactly what was to happen next. Sir Basil 
Branchley followed the matron of the poor-house across a 
dreary back yard, where one had to pick one's footsteps cir- 
cumspectly to avoid the various pitfalls of wash-tubs, step-lad- 
ders and scrubbing-pails, into an expanse of green meadow, 
ordinarily used as a bleaching ground, which sloped down to a 
shallow stream, beside which sat two curiously incongruous 
figures — Silly Gertrude, a great overgrown girl of fifteen or 
sixteen, in a blue-checked apron and hob-nailed shoes; a girl 
with a vacant, good-humored face and reddish hair, shaved 
close to her head — and little Helen, her golden curls blown 
into tangles by the fresh wind, her cheeks dyed with infantile 
roses, and her dark-brown eyes, so like her mother's, glitter- 
ing with happy excitement as she flung pebbles into the water, 
laughing out aloud as each one splashed into the smooth sur- 
face and made itself a circle of radiant rings, ever widening 
toward the shore. 

“ One, two, three! Look, Gerty, look," cried out Helen, 
clapping her baby hands in an ecstasy of glee. Silly Gertrude 
turned her head, with an idiotic smile, and went on with the 
monotonous lay of “ Cruel Barbara Allen," which she was 
humming in a dreary, high-pitched sing-song. 

Sir Basil Branchley paused on the crest of the hill, his heart 
seeming to stand still in his bosom at sight of the lovely, 
golden-haired aj^parition, which was a miniature copy of beau- 
tiful Dora herself; and at the same instant little Helen looked 
up and saw him. 

With a frightened cry she flew to Silly Gertrude, who clasped 
her in her arms, and looked around defiantly, as if she were 
prepared to dare all dangers in her baby-charge's behalf. 

“ Go away," said Silly Gertrude. “ There sha'n't nobody 
touch my gal." 

“ Gertrude, behave yourself," said Mrs. Minkley, sharply. 
“ Put down that child. Who do you suppose wants to harm 
her? Nelly, my dear, come here." 

Silly Gertrude obeyed reluctantly enough. Little Helen 
stood, clinging to the skirts of the blue-checked apron, with 
one finger in her rosy mouth, while she surveyed the stranger 
dubiously from beneath her knitted eyebrows. Alas! how 
often Sir Basil had seen that very look in Dora's face when 
she was momentarily startled or displeased. It cut him to the 
heart, like the stab of a tiny dagger. 

“ Helen," he said, gently, extending both his hands. “My 
little one— my baby! will you come to me?" 


136 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


But Helen only buried her face in Silly Gertrude’s apron, 
and began to cry. 

“ I might have known it,’’ said Sir Basil, recoiling, with a 
pale face and set lips. “ My very flesh and blood turns from 
me.’’ 

“ Dear heart, sir, there’s no occasion to fret,” said Mrs. 
Minkley, as she drew the child forward. “ She’s only a baby, 
sir, and you’re strange^like to her, just at first. She’ll get 
used to you directly. ” 

The matron was a true prophet. In less than fifteen min- 
utes little Helen was sitting on her father’s knee, rapturously 
playing with his watch-chain, and chattering fortli a score of 
unintelligible baby sentences, and when the carriage rolled 
away, she was happy with a rag doll manufactured out of the 
scantest possible materials by Silly Gertrude. And that young 
person herself was crying most sonorously, with her head 
muffled in the back-kitchen towel. 

“ The only child as we’ve had here for a year!” whimpered 
Silly Gertrude. ‘ ‘ And she to be took away j ust as we was 
a-gettin’ used to her. Boo — hoo— hoo! I wish I didn’t belong 
to the poor-house!” 

Sir Basil Branchley took his newly recovered treasure back 
to Saratoga, where he engaged a nurse for her behoof, and 
ordered a wardrobe with the most reckless disregard of de- 
tails. 

“ Give me everything that a child requires, more or less,” 
said he. “ I shall want to take her across the Atlantic in a 
few days. ” 

And Mme. Severini smilingly declared that all should be 
ready Without delay. 

Helen was left at the Clarendon Hotel, in charge of Agnes, 
the new nurse, while Sir Basil Branchley telegraphed to New 
York for a special detective, and spent hours in arranging 
every possible scheme by which hiS' lost child, Walter, could 
be traced. 

The detective looked grave but hopeful. 

It ain’t an easy.. job, sir,” said he, “ but it can be done.” 

“ It mud be done,” said Sir Basil Branchley. “ I tell you, 
man, this lost child is my only sen!” 

“We’ll do our best, sir,” said the man. But as he sat 
mutely penciling down the various odds and ends of informa- 
tion that he deemed of the chiefest importance, he glanced up 
ever and anon from under his bent brows at Sir Basil and 
wondered how it was that he received no instructions on the 
subject of the child’s missing mother. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


137 


‘‘ For she was my fine gentleman^s wife/^ he pondered, 
“ just as much as this little fellow was her son! Oh, well, 
well — it don^t do to inquire too closely into these things. 
There's little jars in all families!" 

While Sir Basil Branchley, sitting opposite with folded arms 
and a face like granite, was trying to shut out of his heart and 
mind the pleading sweetness of Dora's large, limpid eyes, the 
well-remembered music of her laughing voice. 

“ She has deserted me," he repeated to himself. She has 
cast the past utterly behind her. She has separated me, per- 
haps forever, from one of my children ! She has done her best 
to deprive me of the other. May God forgive her, for 1 never 
can!" 


CHAPTER XXllI. 

AT SOUTHAMPTON. 

The sea-fogs ^Yere hanging drearily over the crowded spires 
of Southampton when Sir I3asil Branchley landed with the 
dark-eyed little child which was all that remained to him of 
the brief, bright episode of his American life. The air was 
raw and chill, the mists drooped over the harbor like a great 
lead-colored pall, and Agnes, the nurse-maid, shuddered in- 
voluntarily as, with her little charge in her arms, she took her 
first step on English soil. A wandering violinist on the docks 
was playing “ Home again, home again, from a foreign shore;" 
while a sweet-faced wwian by his side sung the words at the 
top of her shrill .soprano voice; and as Sir Basil went by, he 
flung them a coin. 

“ Home!" he muttered bitterly to himself; “ I wonder if 1 
shall ever know the meaning of the word again." 

Little Helen looked around with large, wondering eyes; to 
her everything was new and delightful. Sir Basil put her and 
her nurse in charge of the motherly landlady at the Princess 
of Wales Hotel;^ who had once been housekeeper in the Branch- 
ley family. 

“Take good care of them, Mrs. Weldon," said he. “I 
shall probably go on to London in the evening train, and from 
thence to Monmouthshire to-morrow." 

Mrs. Weldon was all smiles as she ushered the pale, tired- 
looking nurse and the little laughing child into a cozy private 
parlor where a sea-coal fire was burning, and the deep red cur- 
tains seemed to shut out the rain and mist of the streets, and 
officiously helped to remove Helen's wrappings. 

“The little darling!" said she; “what cherry cheeks she 


138 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


lias, to be sure! So you’ve Just landed off the steamer, my 
good girl?” 

“ Yes,” said Agnes, who was kneeling on the hearth-rug, 
busy with the buttons of the child’s glove. 

“ And 1 suppose as this little lady is some friend’s child as 
Sir Basil has took charge of?” added Mrs. Weldon. 

Agnes looked up in surprise. “ It’s Sir Basil’s own little 
daughter, ma’am,” said she, “from America.” 

Mrs. Weldon fairly started back in amazement. “ Sir 
Basil’s own daughter?” echoed she. “ Bless my soul! Seems 
to me I did hear something about his being married to an 
American lady, and then 1 didn’t hear nothing more and con- 
cluded it was all a mistake. Sir Basil’s own daughter! Bless 
her dear little heart, 1 must have a kiss;” stooping down to 
the child’s rosy face. “ And not a look in her face like him.” 

“ Thby’re not alike,” said Agnes, primly. 

“ She’s like her mother, I suppose?” said Mrs. Weldon, in- 
terrogatively. 

“ I suppose so,” said Agnes. 

“ 1 suppose my lady will be here in a few minutes?” said 
Mrs. Weldon. 

“ Who?^’ said Agnes, looking quickly up. 

“ My Lady Branchley.” 

“No, ma’am,” said Agnes, pursing ujd her lips. “ At 
least I don’t expect she will.” 

Mrs. Weldon opened her eyes very wide indeed. 

“No?” said she. “ Then, if 1 might make bold to ask — 
where is my Lady Branchley?” 

“ 1 don’t know, ma’am,” said Agnes. “ Nobody knows.” 

Mrs. Weldon staggered back. 

“ Dear, dear!” cried she, “^she ain’t never — left him!” 

“ We don’t know,” said Agnes, looking very mysterious. 
“ I never saw my lady, but folks do say as she was only a 
farmer’s daughter, at Saratoga. 1 know there’s some kind of 
a secret search a-goin’ on, and I know there was a little boy 
as she took with her, to spite Sir Basil — that’s what people 
say.” 

“ The son and heir!” cried Mrs. Weldon, clasping her 
hands. “ Oh, dear, dear, how dreadful!” 

“ But Sir Basil ain’t best pleased for folks to talk of it,” 
added Agnes. 

“ Naturally,” nodded Mrs. Weldon. 

“ And it’s as much as my place is worth to mention the 
subject,” went on the girl, “ so if you please, ma’am, you’ll 
regard this as quite private and confidential between us.” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


139 


“ Oh, certainly, certainly, said Mrs. Weldon, who was 
completely bewildered by the magnitude and startling nature 
of the news that she had just heard. “ And now that my dear 
little lady^s dropping off to sleep, so snug and comfortable 
like, 1^11 just ring for a bit of hot toast and a cup of tea, and 
we’ll talk: it all over, ma’am, you and 1 ! Dear, dear, to think 
of such a thing happening in the Branchley family, and they 
as proud as Lucifer! And Sir Basil the haughtiest of them 
all! Dear me, dear me!” 

While his domestic affairs were thus being freely canvassed 
by the ex-housekeeper and Miss Agnes, in the little private 
parlor of the Princess of Wales Hotel, Sir Basil Branchley 
himself was walking moodily through the streets of Southamp- 
ton. He had been directed by Mr. Hewcombe, the New York 
detective officer, to put himself in communication with one 
Moses Medill, a worthy who resided in one of the back streets 
of the seaport town, with a tin sign emblazoned: “ Solicitor at 
Law ” fastened in front of his door. But in truth and in 
fact, Mr. Moses Medill did very little “soliciting at law.” 
He was a pale, flabby man, with a double chin, a smooth- 
shaven face, and small black eyes, who sat all day at a high 
desk, making entries in a big clasped book, eating sandwiches 
out of a tin box, and drinking sherry by secret gulps out of a 
flat wicker flask. People went and came to that house, but 
to all appearances Mr. Moses Medill never crossed the thresh- 
old. And if his neighbors had been told that he was one of 
the keenest and best-informed detectives in England, they 
would probably have laughed in the informant’s face. 

He glanced at Sir Basil’s card without a gleam of intelli- 
gence in his dull, heavy countenance. 

“It’s all right. Sir Basil,” said he, thrusting the sherry 
flask a little further under a pile of yellow papers as he spoke. 
“ Newcombe has written to me.” 

“ Not that I think it at all likely that the lady will visit 
England,” began Sir Basil, “ but — ” 

■ “I understand,” said Mr. Medill, solemnly, “I under- 
stand. Things as is likely and ain’t likely don’t count 
for much with us. The main point is to be on the look- 
out, and not to lose time. Yes, Sir Basil, you may make 
your mind easy. I understand. It ain’t necessary for you to 
trouble yourself with any more instructions. ” 

And when the baronet went out Mr. Medill refreshed him- 
self with a swallow out of the surreptitious sherry flask, and 
sat staring at the ceiling for full half an hour. 

“He may be a very sagacious fellow,” thought Sir Basil, 


140 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


as lie walked with swift, nervous footsteps down the street. 
“I am bound to suppose that he is, from what No wcombe 
has told me— but he certainly appears very like a fool!"’ 

If Mr. Moses Medill could have known the meditations of 
his client, he would have smiled grimly. He had succeeded 
in making the very impression he desired to produce. 

“ Ual — lo!” called out a cheery voice, as Sir Basil walked 
on with preoccupied mind, and eyes that beheld nothing of the 
outer world. “ Why, it’s Branchley!” 

And the baronet looked up to recognize the frank, cheery 
face of a man who had been his classmate at Oxford five years 
ago. His face brightened for a moment, in spite of the sad 
meditations from which he had been so abruptly rousM. 

“ Anneslie,” said he, “ surely this is never you V" 

“ Why shouldn’t it be mo?” demanded the tall, good-hu- 
mored looking man who had planted himself so directly in Sir 
Basil Branchley’s path. “ The wonder is that it should be 
you. Why, man alive, don’t you know that I’m one of the 
surgeons in the hospital here. Didn’t I write you all about it 
not a year ago?” 

Sir Basil looked puzzled. He had never, received the letter 
to which his old college-mate alluded. And yet he could not 
very well explain the various circumstances which had kept 
him from England. 

“ In the hospital here?” he repeated, vaguely. 

Dr. Anneslie nodded. 

“ A fine institution,” said he. “ And I flatter myself I’ve 
succeeded in infusing a little new blood into the galvanized old 
corpse of medical respectability here. How much time have 
you? Wouldn’t you like to go through the wards with me? 
There are some fine accident cases, and we’ve one or two very 
peculiar developments of *f ever, which — ” 

Sir Basil smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm. 

” Thanks,” said he, “ but it is quite impossible. I leave 
almost immediately; 1 have only arrived this morning from 
America — ” 

Dr. Anneslie rumpled up the crest of cuiiy^ black hair which 
crowned his fine head like a mane. 

“ Pardon me,” said he. “I did hear that you were mar- 
ried— to an American lady. Is Lady Branchley with you?” 

Sir Basil shook his head; and there was an expression in his 
face which warned Dr. Anneslie to desist from asking further 
questions. 

“ Oh, by the way,” said he, “ one of those cases in the fever 
ward is an American — one of the sweetest faces I ever saw. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


141 


It’s very strange how differently disease will develop itself in 
one of these magnificent transatlantic constitutions. If I ever 
get time. I’ll write a pamphlet upon the influences of climate 
on pathology, hanged if I don’t!'’ 

“ A very interesting subject,” said Sir Basil, absently. 

“ You, won’t come in and look at my new system 6f ventila- 
tion, and the pretty American fever patient?” asked Dr. An- 
neslie, with a laugh. “ 1 can take you there and back in an 
hour, and h^ve plenty of time to go over the wards.” 

“ Who, I?”, said Sir Basil, raising himselfwith an effort 
out of his thoughts. “ Thanks, no. 1 could not possibly 
spare the time.” 

‘‘ Well, good-bye,” said the doctor, wringing his hand cor- 
dially, “ I’m glad to have met you, at all events.” 

He jumped into his carriage, snatched the reins from the 
hands of his groom, and drove away at a rattling pace over 
the stony streets of' Southampton. 

“ Look’s like a ghost!” thought Dr. Anneslie. “ 1 wonder 
what it is, any way, between himself and his wife. Poor fel- 
low! to think that a life like that should be wrecked, all 
through a woman! It’s a deucedly delicate subject, I sup- 
pose, but I should like to know the rights and wrongs of the 
whole affair. I used to like Branchley in the old days.” 

He was still musing upon the subject when they drew up in 
front of the great stone building, with its paved court and 
Elizabethan porch. 

Dr. Anneslie, like most physicians, possessed the convenient 
art of regulating all his thoughts and meditations as if they 
were so many brown paper parcels, neatly done up and labeled. 
He could take one out of the storehouse of his brain at pleas- 
ure, and put it back again at any second he pleased, calling 
up its successor with magical promptness. And he put down 
Sir Basil Branchley’ s affairs as he crossed the paved court, and 
took up the fever cases with as intent an interest as if he h,ad 
never thought of anything else. 

He strode across the wide, airy hall, sprung up the stone 
stairs two at a time, exchanging pleasant words with the at- 
tendants and students as he passed, and plunged at once into 
the business of the day. 

Like a glimpse of sunshine his cheery face came and went 
among the wards. He had a round red apple for the little 
child. No. 6, who had been run over by a cart, and a number 
of an illustrated weekly for the pale boy with the spine disease, 
who found the time hang so heavily on his hands. He stopped 
by the poor little woman in No. 18, who liad heightened her 


142 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


fever by fretting about the children at home, scolded her 
roundly first, and then told her that the Sisters of Mercy had 
sent a young woman to care for the little ones until such time 
as she, their proper guardian, should return. 

“ God bless you, sirl’^ said the widow, with tears in her 
eyes. And wherever Dr. Anneslie went the same benison fol- 
lowed him, with whispered fervor, “ God bless you, sir. 

He stepped with a lighter foot as he crossed the cleanly 
scrubbed corridor to the last ward, and entered a great airy 
room with whitewashed walls, rows of glittering windows, and 
lines of narrow iron bedsteads, separated by light wooden par- 
titions. 

“ Well, nurse,^^ said he to the mild-faced, elderly woman in 
the black stuff dress and white net cap, who rose to greet him, 
“ and how is 45 to-day?’^ 

“ Well, sir, I should say she was a thought better,’^ said 
the woman. “Not but what she^s light-headed yet, and the 
fever ain’t altogether gone, but still she’s slept by spells, and 
took her cup of beef-tea like a lamb.” 

“ Come, that's a good hearing,” said the doctor, cheerily, 
as he advanced, and drawing aside the white curtains, above 
which hung a label in fat black letters, “ No. 45,” approached 
the light iron bedstead, upon which lay a small, fearfully at- 
tenuated figure, with large dark eyes shining out from cavern- 
like sockets, a deathly pale face, and close-shaven head. One 
tiny blue-veined hand, which was wasted until it bore a pitiful 
resemblance to the claw of a bird, lay on the coverlid — the 
other was restlessly groping about the bed as if for something 
which it could not find — a weary, ceaseless search. 

And this poor white shadow, with its gleaming eyes and 
sunken cheeks, was all that remained of beautiful Theodora 
Branchley! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Dora’s letter. 

Dr. Anneslie laid his hand, with gentle authority, on the 
poor little wandering palm. 

“ My child,” said he, “ be quiet. You are tiring yourself 
out.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said she, staring vaguely at him. “ But 
they have taken it away, and I can not find it.” 

“ Taken what away?” 

The nurse, who had been watching her, now came forward. 

“ 1 think, sir, as it must be her wedding-ring she meaus,” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


143 


said she, in a low tone to the doctor. “ It dropped off her 
poor wasted finger, and 1 put it away.^' 

“Do you hear, 45?’^ said the doctor, kindly. “ It^s all 
safe. Pomfret will give it to you when you are better.’^ 

The large, burning eyes were lifted to his face. 

“ But I want it noio,” said she. 

. “ Bring it, Pomfret, said the doctor. 

“ It wouldn’t stay on her finger, sir.” 

“ Bring it, I say; I will fix it so that it will stay on her 
finger.” 

' The nurse brought the golden circlet which Sir Basil Branch- 
ley had placed upon his bride’s* fair hand that bright day at 
Saratoga. The sick woman’s eyes glittered at sight of it. 

“ Give it to me,” said Dr. Anneslie. He wound it with silk 
twist, which he took from his instrument-case, and then 
slipped it on her finger. 

There,” said he, “ now you can keep it.” 

The faintest shadow of a smile seemed to flutter around her 
pale lips as she closed her eyes once again. 

“ She’s very young to be a married woman, sir, isn’t she?” 
said Mrs. Pomfret, as she smoothed the pillow and sprinkled 
a few drops of some fragrant aromatic disinfectant on the 
coverlid. 

“ There are youiig fools as well as old ones,” said the doc- 
tor, brusquely. He stood a moment consulting his watch, 
with one finger pressed on the patient’s pulse. 

“Better,” said he. “Decidedly better. Upon my word, 
Pomfret, I’m of opinion that she will pull through yet!” 

Mrs. Pomfret was stirring a bowl of gruel over a hissing 
little spirit-lamp that afternoon, when a low, tremulous voice 
reached her ear — Dora Branchley’s voice. 

“ Who are you?” said Dora, in the faint, fluttering accents 
of a frightened child. “ Who are you?” 

“ Bless my soul!” said Mrs. Pomfret, turning around. 
“ She’s cornin’ back to her head again. Who am 1, dear? 
Why, I’m Nurse Pomfret; and I’ve took care of you and 
tended you these many days!” 

There was a momentary silence— the light of reason came 
back slowly, slowly, to poor Dora’s weary brain. And then 
followed another question: 

“ What place is this?” 

“It’s St. Hilarius’s Hospital, dearie,” said Mrs. Pomfret, 
comfortably. 

“ And — and how came I here?” 

“ They brought you out of the steerage, dearie,” said Mrs. 


144 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Pomfret, with the kindly consideration due to one of Dr. 
Anneslie^s favorite cases — “ the steerage of that nasty Ameri- 
can steamer, as was chock-full of fever — and here you^ve laid, 
close to death’s door, for two months.” 

Theodora lay quite still. She heard the words, and com- 
prehended them as an abstract fact, but they made no especial 
impression upon her mind until that same evening, at dusk, 
when Mrs. Pomfret brought her a strengthening drink. 

“ Did you say — two months?” said she, lifting the great 
weird eyes to the nurse’s face. 

Mrs. Pomfret nodded her head. “ And more,” said she, 
“it was the colored stewardess brought you here — a good, 
kind soul as ever lived. She had to go back again the next 
trip, or, she declared, she’d have stayed and helped nurse you 
herself!” 

Dora gave a low, shuddering cry. 

“ Two — months!” said she. “Then it is spring-time 
now?” 

“ Summer, my dear,” said Mrs. Pomfret — “ the last of 
June.” 

“ I must get up and be dressed,” said Dora, faintly. 
“ Help me, please! Where are my things? And why have 
you wound my wedding-ring with silk?” 

Mrs. Pomfret smiled serenely: she was used to the mad 
freaks of fever patients. 

“There, there,” said she, “lie still like a good child. 
Why, you couldn’t walk a step if you tried! And your clothes 
would hang on you like a scarecrow, even if they wasn’t sent 
to be disinfected long ago. You’ll have some nice new ones 
before long, never fear. And as for your wedding-ring, it 
was the doctor himself wound it all with silk, so it shouldn’t 
slip off your finger. Bless his kind heart!” 

“ What doctor?” ^ 

“ Doctor Anneslie. He’ll be here again to see you at one 
o’clock to-morrow. ” 

And once more poor Dora closed her eyes, with past, fut- 
ure, and present seeming to flit like cloudy phantoms through 
her brain. ^ She was too weak and weary even to think; the 
tired consciousness refused the draft ujDon its enfeebled powers, 
and she fell asleep, even while she was trying to comprehend 
where she was, and why she was there. 

“ Well, 45, and so you are all right now?” said Dr. Annes- 
lie, briskly, as he came to her side the next day. 

She smiled faintly; the large limpid eyes deepened with un- 
expressed emotion. 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


145 


“ Do you know/" said he, cheerfully, “ I claim great credit 
to myself for bringing you through the crisis of this fever 

“1 thank you very much, sir,’" said Dora, in a faltering 
voice. “ If you had not taken pity on me, 1 must have died 
— and then — ” 

She paused— a choking fullness seemed to rise into her 
throat, as she thought of the lonely little children playing on 
the hearth-rug in front of Miss Joanna Beck’s fire. 

“And then you’d have been a deal better off, 1 don’t 
doubt,” said the doctor, lightly. “ But you must be a good 
girl, and eat and drink as much as you can, so as to get 
strong.” 

“ Yes,” said Dora, with feverish eagerness. “ I must get 
strong — 1 must get away from here.” 

“ Why?” said Dr. Anneslie, with an amused look. “ Are 
you tired of us already? Don’t Pomfret treat you well?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, yes!” cried Dora, “ but — there are reasons!” 

Dr. Anneslie looked earnestly at her. “ Were you coming 
to this country for your husband?” said he. 

The deep scarlet suffused Dora’s thin face. 

“ Yes, sir,” said she, in a low tone. 

“ Where is he?” 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

“ A clear case of desertion,” thought the doctor. “ Poor 
child — perhaps it was a questionable kindness in me to keep 
her away from the gates of the grave? Well, it would be 
wicked to question her further. ” 

And he added pleasantly : 

“ Well, keep up your spirits, my child; 1 dare say you’ll 

find him!” ^ 

Dora looked piteously after him as he strode off to the other 


patients. 

“ He seems good and kind,” thought she. 
very softly, as if he had known trouble himself, 
a little more courage, I would tell him all. I 


And he spoke 
Oh, if I had 
would ask his 


But poor Dora was like the wounded' fawn that hides its 
hurt from mortal Sbe could not bring herself to make a 

confidant of the kiftdly surgeon! 

If she only had followed the impulse of her heart. 

“ Mrs. Pomfret,” she said, timidly, the second day after 


her return to reason. ^ 

Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Pomfret, with the kindly, ca- 
ressing way which came so naturally from her genial tempeia- 
ment. ^ 


146 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Can you write?” 

“Of course 1 can, my dear,” said Mrs. Pomfret. “And 
read, too. IVe had a tolerable education, though I says it as 
shouldn't say it.” 

“ Will you write a letter for me? To a friend in Ameri- 
ca?” 

“ To be sure I will, dearie.” 

“ Noiof’ 

“ If it^s not to be too long,” said Mrs. Pomfret, provision- 
ally. “ Because 1 canT have you tiring yourself out, you 
know, and getting a relapse, and all that sort of thing. The 
doctor wouldn’t like it. ” 

“ Oh, no, no, dear Mrs. Pomfret, it shall not be long,” said 
Dora. “ Get some pen and paper, please. 1 have none of 
my own. I must be a supplicant for everything.” 

“Don’t fret about that, dear; it’s not much,” said Mrs. 
Pomfret, kindly, as she produced the necessary implements 
from a table drawer near by. “ Now begin. What shall 1 
say?” 

Dora closed her eyes and tried to think. 

“ Say Dear Joanna’^ said she. 

“ No date nor nothing?” said Mrs. Pomfret, biting the end 
of her pen. 

“ No; it isn’t necessary. I shall write so soon again. Dear 
Joanna !” 

“ Well,” nodded the nurse, “ I’ve wrote that down.” 

“ I have been very ill, but am better now. 1 — ” 

“Stop, stop, child!” cried Mrs. Pomfret. “1 ain’t a 
steam-engine, nor yet I ain’t the Lightning Letter Writer. 

‘ 1 am letter now D There, go on. ” 

“ I have not seen him yet,” dictated Dora, rather more 
moderately now; “ but 1 shall soon, and I will send the money 
just as soon as I get it. For God’s sake, Joanna, wait patient- 
ly, and be good to the children. 

“ Your sister, 

“Dora.” 

“ You want me to write Dora Bracy, don’t you?” said Mrs. 
Pomfret. 

“No,” said Dora, coloring at the mention of the assumed 
name which she had borne in the steamer’s books. “ It is 
not necessary to sign any name but ‘ Dora.’ She knows. 
Please to direct it ‘ Miss Joanna Beck, Saratoga, United States 
of America. ’ And if you will put a postage stamp on it, I 
will pay you when I get money from Ba , from my hus- 

band. 1 had twenty dollars in my bag, but it was stolen from 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


147 


me in the steerage. 1 think it was 2 )artJy that vvhich gave me 
the fever, for 1 cried so when I missed it, and my head ached 
so dreadfully, and there was such a shooting pain between my 
eyes, and then I can’t remember anything more.” 

So Mrs. Pom fret directed the letter, and affixed the neces- 
sary stamp,, and sent a little boy out to post it, with all haste. 

“ You’ll feel better now, won’t you?” said she, kindly. * 

“Oh! so much, much better,” said Dora, with swimming 
eyes, and she pressed the wrinkled, horny hand of the good- 
natured nurse to her lips. 

“ 1 do declare,” said Mrs. Pomfret, stroking down the fore- 
head of the girl, “ your hair is beginning to grown again — the 
least bit in the world.” 

“ Js it?” said Dora, listlessly. 

“ 1 can tell you,” said Mrs. Pomfret, speaking more with 
the idea of amusing, her patient than from any set purpose, 
“ it went to my heart to cut ofiP those beautiful long curls o’ 
yours. Such a rare gold color, too. I’ve seen hair of that 
color sold for five pound a switch when I was in the hair-dress- 
ing business with my brother’s widow, before 1 came here. ” 

Dora opened her eyes with sudden animation. 

“ My hair,” she cried out. “ Oh, Mrs. Pomfret — could I 
not sell it?” 

“ Mercy, no, child,” cried the matron. “ It was burned — 
along with your clothes. And if it hadn’t been, why, it would 
ha’ been against all rules to sell hair cut from the head of a 
hospital patient! Why, we should have had all the health 
commissioners down upon us in a lump.” 

“ Did they — hum my clothes?” gasped Dora. 

“To be sure, dearie. It’s the regulation here. But you 
needn’t look so scared. You’ll be furnished with a decent 
suit when you leave here — there’s a ladies’ association sees to 
that, without its costing you a penny. And I looked through 
all the pockets myself and there was nothing of any value in 
’em.” 

“ There was a little chamois leather bag,” began Dora, 
nervously. 

“ Around your neck? With papers in it? Oh,” said the 
nurse, kindly, “ that’s quite safe. I took charge of it my- 
self. If you had died ” (how much as a matter of course she 
spoke the words which made poor Dora’s heart stand still) 
“ we should have broken the seal to find out where your friends 
lived. We often get a clew to people’s belongings in that 
way.” 

Dora drew a long sigh of relief, for there was a little, 


148 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


thread-like chain of gold in the bag, with a tiny cross at the 
end— a chain which Basil had given her, and which she had 
wound around the marriage certificate. It was of no great 
intrinsic value, but still she knew that it was worth some- 
thing. It would at least enable her to reach Branchley Manor 
House, and then — 

But the poor weary little brain could endure no further 
strain, and Mrs. Pomfret looked up in the middle of a long 
monologue, to perceive that her patient was soundly sleeping. 

“ Bless her poor heart,^^ said the good-natured nurse, “ it 
will do her good.^^ 

“ Doctor Anneslie,^^ said Dora, the next day, when the sur- 
geon came as usual to pay his daily visit, “ how soon can I go 
away from here?” 

“ I donH know,” said the doctor, intent upon the hurried 
throbbing of his patient’s unequal pulse. “ Possibly in two 
weeks — or ten days, perhaps, if you make very good progress 
indeed.” 

“ Two weeks! Ten days!” repeated Dora, aghast; “ oh, I 
must go sooner than that.” 

“ Child,” said the doctor, “ there is no ‘ must ’ in a case 
like this; it is for you to thank Heaven that your life is spared 
to you at all, instead of trying to dictate to Providence.” 

“I did not mean that, sir,” faltered Dora, with the quick 
tears springing to her eyes. “ Only — only you do not know 
all.” 

Dr. Anneslie sat down by the bedside, and placed his cool 
hand on the girl’s fevdred forehead. 

“ Will you not tell me all?” said he. You are very 
young to be friendless and alone! Don’t you think it would 
be advisable to take some one into your confidence?” 

But Dora shrunk away like a frightened child. 

“ 1 could not, sir,” gasped she. “Please — please do not 
ask me. It is not my secret alone; it belongs to my hus- 
band.” 

“ He has not deserted you, then?” 

“ Oh, no, sir; no!” Dora’s eyes fairly flashed at the idea. 

“ Why does he not come to you?” 

“ He does not know,” faltered Dora. 

“Will you not let me write to him?” 

“ Oh, no, not for the world!” 

Dr. Anneslie shrugged his shoulders and rose again. 

“ Well,” said he, “ we must not talk you into a headache. 
And, I suppose, a willful woman must have her own way — at 
least so the proverb says.” 


LOVE AT SAHA TOG A. 


149 


And in spite of Dorans resolution to recover as rapidly as 
possible, it was full three weeks after the date of this conver- 
sation, when, dressed in a plain black dress from the repertoire 
of the “ Ladies’ Association,^" with her pale face half hidden 
under a coarse black hat^ and the beloved chamois leather bag 
once more suspended by a ribbon around her neck, Dora 
Branchley bade the good nurse adieu. 

“ You are such a child to be going away by yourself,"" said 
Mrs. Pomfret, shaking her head; “and I don"t believe you 
even know where you are going."" 

“ Yes, I do,"" said Dora, trying to call a smile into her pale 
face; “ I am going to find my husband— in Monmouthshire; 
and I am so grateful to you for the money you gave me for 
the little chain and cross."" 

The cab which Mrs. Pomfret had called and paid for, con- 
veyed Dora to the railway station, and in another half hour 
she was steaming westward with her eyes intently fixed on the 
flying landscape, and her mind trying to project itself into the 
future. But she was still weak and powerless to reflect, ex- 
cept for a very few minutes at a time. 

“ I wish they had not cut off all my hair,"" thought Dora, 
recoiling, with a shudder, from the reflection of her changed 
face in a little slip of mirror above an opposite door. “ And 
1 am so pale, and my cheeks are so sunken. But he will love 
me still; he always loved me in spite of everything."" 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WAYSIDE TRAVELEK. 

The intense glow of an August day had burned itself away 
in the deep orange sunset that turned the river into blood; the 
trees leaned, with stirless leaves, against the horizon, and a 
refreshing coolness was beginning to creep over the little ham- 
let of Branchley-upon-Usk. Here and there people sat on 
their steps enjoying the soft air; little groups were-gathered at 
the corners, and everything bore an aspect of rest and relaxa- 
tion after the heat and labor of the day. The evening train 
had swept through Branchley-upon-Usk, leaving its little rip- 
ple of incident and excitement; the mail had been brought up 
to the post-office and duly sorted out and distributed; and 
Mrs. Hovvglas, the landlord’s wife, was leaning over the half 
door of the pretty little inn, with her knitting in her hand, as 
one of the village gossips went by. 

“ No company to-night, eh, Mrs. Howglas?"" said Miss 


150 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Perkins, who was a milliner and dress-maker by trade, and had 
a little bay-window half-way up the main street, full of caps 
and bonnets and ribbon bows. 

“ Of course there^s no company, said Mrs. Howglas, irri- 
tably. “ How can one expect company. Miss Perkins? Times 
ain’t as they used to be, when her majesty’s mail-coach passed 
through Branchley-upon-Usk, and all the passengers stopped 
overnight at the Queen’s Arms. Ah! them was the days to 
live in! And if it wasn’t for tourists and London clerks down 
for their vacations, and artists, and that sort of people, me and 
Howglas might just as well put up our shutters at once, so we 
might.” 

Miss Perkins shook her head and sighed sympathetically. 

“ We’re losing money, that’s a fact,” said Mrs. Howglas. 

But Howglas’s father and grandfather .kept the place before 
him, and he’s partial to it. We’d a-done a deal better some- 
wheres else. No, young woman,” irritably, as a slight figure 
moved languidly up to her in the twilight and paused as if to 
speak, “ we’ve nothing to give — nothing at all.” 

The quick blood rushed to Dora Branchley’s pale cheek. 
She drew herself up with in-born dignity. 

‘‘ I think you misunderstand me, my good woman,” said 
she; “ I was not begging.” 

Mrs. Howglas turned quickly to look at the pallid face and 
slender figure to which she had not as yet deigned a glance. 

‘‘ 1 beg your pardon, miss,” said she. “ What was it you 
was a axin’ of? It’s half dark, and my eyes isn’t what they 
was, and there’s such a many tramps around just now. Walk 
in, please, miss, and be seated?” 

And Mrs. Howglas bustled to set a chair in her own little 
parlor, which boasted a red and green carpet and gilt-framed 
mirror, and opened from the bar by a white-curtained glas^ 
door. 

Am 1 far from Branchley Manor House?” asked Dora, 
sinking like one utterly exhausted, into the chair. 

“ Five miles, miss,” said Mrs. Howglas; “ by the straight 
road, or four miles and a half if so be as you goes over Bam- 
sey Rock, and along the glen path by the precipice.” 

“ Five miles!” echoed the weary traveler. 

“ You ain’t a-goin’ to faint, miss, be you?” said Mrs. How- 
glas, reaching instinctively for a glass of water. 

Dora recovered herself with an effort. 

“ No,” said she, almost inaudibly. “ But five miles yet! 
And I thought I was there when the train left me at Branch- 
ley-upon-Usk.” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


151 


“ said Mrs. Howgias, groping dimly, as it were, for 
facts. “ Then you came by the train?^^ 

Dora inclined her head. 

“ I didnT see you in the station omnibus when it went by/^ 
hazarded Mrs. Howgias. 

“ I walked/’ said Dora. 

“ That’s a good quarter of a mile, of a hot evening,” said 
Mrs. Howgias. 

“ I — I have not a great deal of money,” confessed Dora. 
“ I am obliged to economize where 1 can.” 

“ Oh!” said Mrs. Howgias, the thermometer of her respects 
falling a great many degrees at once; “ p’r’aps you was 
a-lookin’ for a place up in the manor house. If so, I might 
as well tell you plainly as my step-daughter, Mary Anne, 
has the promise of the first situation as falls vacant.” 

Once more Dora drew herself slightly up, although she 
could hardly help smiling., 

“ You are mistaken again,” said she. “ I was not looking 
for a place.” 

Mrs. Howgias was evidently puzzled. 

“ P’r’aps you’re a friend of Mrs. Birehall, the housekeeper,” 
said she. “ Mrs. Birchall is a very nice old lady, and one as 
I’ve knowed these twenty years. I’m often up to the manor 
house to tea, and once a year Mrs. Birchall and my lady’s 
maid does me the honor to come here in a friendly way.” 

But Dora was paying no attention to the landlady’s words; 
she had taken out her purse and was counting over its contents 
with feverish haste. 

“ How much would a conveyance to Branchley Manor House 
cost?” asked she, suddenly interrupting the tide of Mrs. How- 
glas’s eloquence. 

“We couldn’t harness up under a crown,” said Mrs. How- 
gias, stiffly. 

“ And how much is that?” said Dora, who was hardly as 
yet used to English current coinage. 

“ Five shillings,” said Mrs. Howgias, knitting away by the 
light of the two tallow candles, which she had placed in bright- 
ly scoured brass sticks on the mantel, where they kept com- 
pany with a plaster basket of highly colored fruit, a china dog, 
and a pair of conch shells. 

“ And how much would a bed cost here? a bed and a very, 
very plain supper? just bread and cheese,” said Dora, wist- 
fully. 

“ If you ain’t pa’ticular as to the room — ” began the land- 
lady. 


152 


LOVE AT SARATOGA.' 


“ Oh, I am not’/" interposed Dora. 

“ Then we"ll call it eighteen pence/" said Mrs. Howglas; 
“ and 1 can put you in one of the little chambers over the 
stable-yard, as is clean and neat, though the view ain"t quite 
what 1 could wish it to be. Would you like your supper at 
once?"" 

“ If you please,"" said Dora, rousing herself as from a 
reverie. 

Mrs. Howglas spoke over the bar door to a buxom, red- 
armed maid-of-all-work, and presently a little japanned tray 
arrived, with two solid wedges of coarse bread, a knob of 
cheese, and a mug of foaming beer. 

I did not order beer,"" said Dora, looking up with a 
startled face. 

“ No,’" said Mrs. Howglas, kindly, “ but you"ve a dreadful 
tired look, and a mug o" beer don"t matter much either way 
in a house like the Queen"s Arms. Drink it and welcome; 
it"ll do you good."" 

“ Thank you,"" said Dora, meekly, as she drank the froth- 
ing beverage, and felt it strengthen her weary nerves and sink- 
ing frame. 

“ So you"re going to Branchley Manor House,"" said Mrs. 
Howglas, who was evidently in a garrulous mood, and had 
seated herself, with her knitting, in the open window. 

“Yes."" Dora was trying to eat the cross-grained bread 
and rank cheese, although she could hardly swallow them. 
But she was weak and faint, and felt the necessity of nourish- 
ment of whatever nature. 

“ They"re a fine family,"" said Mrs. Howglas. 

“ Are they?"" faltered Dora. 

“ Though my lady never has got back her old spirits since 
Sir Reginald’s death,"" added Mrs. Howglas. “ And one can’t 
wonder at it, when one considers all the circumstances."" 

“ What circumstances?"" Dora looked up with a pale, 
fevered face. , 

“ So sudden like, you kfibw,"" said Mrs. Howglas. “ And 
Sir Basil’s wretched marriage. ’" 

“ Marriage!” 

“ Hadn’t yon heard?” said Mrs. Howglas. “ He got mar- 
ried, secret like, over in America, to a common working-girl 
as wasn’t fit to mate with him. My lady’s maid told me that 
her ladyship went into dreadful hysterics when she first heard 
of it, and no wonder, she as had always held up her head with 
the highest in the land. ” 

Dora sat quite silent, bending over the tray, while Mrs. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


153 


Howglas talked on, delighted to have obtained so docile an 
auditor. 

“ And 1 do suppose Lady Augusta Trente was worse disap- 
pointed still/’ said she, “ for they do say as she and Sir Basil 
'were as good as engaged, and Lady Branchley loves her like 
a daughter. May be you’ve seen Lady Augusta?” 

Dora shook her head. 

“ Ah!” said Mrs. Howglas. “ There's a beauty for you. 
There's a lady as would have done credit to the name of 
Branchley. And may be she will yet, for Sir Basil was always 
fond of her, and they tell me as divorces is easy obtained in 
America. And there’s one thing to be thankful for — Sir Basil 
left this foreign wife of his in her own country, and didn’t 
bring her over to put his fine relatives to the blush.” 

“ Indeed!” Dora’s eyeswere shining fitfully now; her face, 
ere while so pale, was glowing scarlet. “ And what has become 
of this poof girl — the wife, I mean?” 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Howglas, “that 1 don’t know. I dare 
say he’s provided for her comfortably. The Branchleys were 
alvvays a generous race. But I can’t help thinking it would 
be a good thing for everybody if she was to die!” 

Dora shuddered and clasped her hands nervously in her lap. 

“ Perhaps it would.” 

“ Don’t you see?” said Mrs. Howglas, triumphantly waving 
her disengaged knitting-needle in the air. “ It would just 
unloose the whole tangle. Sir Basil could marry Lady Augusta, 
as is what the whole family has always looked forward to. My 
lady would be happy, and all that unlucky American business 
would be forgotten.” 

“ But/’ pleaded Dora, in an agony of contending emotions, 
“ perhaps — perhaps Sir Basil loves this poor forgotten girl?” 

“ It ain’t likely,” said Mrs. Howglas, rescuing her ball of 
cotton from the piratical grasp of a kitten. “ There’s some 
women, you see, that bewitches a man, and when they once 
gets out from under the spell, they themselves is the first to 
wonder at it. She must have been a reg’lar artful creetur to 
get him to marry her at all, for — But you ain’t near through 
eating?” 

“Yes,” said Dora, rising. “Let me go to my room, 
please; I am very, very tired.” 

Mrs. Howglas took up a candle, and preceded the weary 
young traveler along a labyrinth of low-ceiled, cleanly soured 
little passages, terminating in a tiny room, which looked out 
upon the stables — a room whose furniture consisted of a nar- 


154 


LOVE AT SARATOGA, 


row bed, covered by a patch-work quilt, a pine table, and one 
chair. 

“ It^s small, said Mrs. Howglas, “but you^ll find it neat 
and clean, ma^'am/’ 

The door was hardly closed behind the landlady's retreating 
footsteps, when Dora flung herself on her knees on the floor, 
with her face buried in the pillows of the bed. 

“ Is it true?^^ she asked herself, wildly. “Is it all real? 
Does he wish me dead? Am I a blight and a blur on his life? 
Oh, my husband, my Basil, has it come to this?^' 

The moon rose up, golden and beaming, and looked piti- 
fully down on the young wife as she knelt there, struggling 
with her own heart. The soft summer air touched her burn- 
ing forehead, and a night-bird in the trees without uttered a 
low, hoarse shriek, like a note of warning. 

In all the agonies and tribulation through which she had 
passed, Dora had known no pangs like this. In all her doubts 
and vague uncertainties,^ she had firmly believed in the one 
rock and refuge of her husband^s love. But now — now it was 
as if all the moorings of her life had broken loose, and the 
poor little drifting bark was nearing the great ocean of de- 
spair. 

“But I will know,^^ she said to herself. “ I will not suffer 
doubt like this to gnaw my heart out, without sufficient rea- 
son. 

She rose and looked out at the moonlight beauty of the 
night. 

“Five miles!^^ she said to herself, “five miles! I can 
easily walk it, if I go slowly and stop to rest between whiles. 
I am stronger since I drank the beer that good woman gave 
me, ^nd eat the bread. And it will be a much easier journey 
at night than in the burning heat of day.^^ 

She laved her face and hands in the small tin wash-basin 
which represented the toilet service of the apartment — ah! 
how cool and delicious the water felt — and dried them on 
a lavender-smelling towel of homespun linen that hung on a 
nail beside the table. 

“ I feel better now,^^ she murmured, and folding once more 
around her shoulders the light shawl which she had thrown 
aside, and extinguishing the dim candle which burned on the 
shelf, she crept softly out into the narrow entry, and down the 
creaking stairs to the first door that seemed to promise egress 
into the air. 

It chanced to open into a thriving vegetable gardep, whose 
rows of currant and gooseberry bushes skirted the very high- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


155 


road, and hurrying along with quick, nervous footsteps, Dora 
found herself presently in the dew-sprinkled footpath which 
wound its sinuous way in a parallel line with the dusty road. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ so NEAR, AND YET SO FAR.” 

She paused and glanced irresolutely up and down the broad 
thoroughfare, uncertain which direction to take. Presently, 
however, a barefooted lad came shuffling along through the 
dust with a basket on his arm, and whistling as he trudged. 

“ Which is the way to the manor house — Branchley Manor 
House?^’ she ventured to ask. 

The lad stopped whistling and stared at her. 

“There ain.'^t but one manor house hereabouts, P said he; 
“ and that lays right afore you to the north. IPs a straight 
road, and you canT miss it.” 

Slowly and languidly Dora moved along in the direction in- 
dicated by the boy^s pointed finger, now crossing a broad space 
of glimmering moonshine, now losing herself in deep shade, 
and ever and anon sitting down on a stone or a grassy slope, 
or friendly stile by the way-side, to rest; for it was but a day 
or two, be it remembered, since she had been discharged from 
the wards of St. Ililarius^s Hospital at Southampton, and she 
was still weak and feverish, with limbs that trembled under 
her, and a brain through which wild unconnected fancies 
chased each other with bewildering succession. 

“ Let what happen will,” she told herself, moodily, “ I 
have enough money to take me back to Southampton — and 
Doctor Anneslie will tell me what to do to get home to Joanna 
and the children. The children! For oh, thank God, they 
are mine still, and no one can take them from me!” 

And she smiled in the golden moonlight as she remembered 
Walter and little Nelly at home. 

The great lodge gates of Branchley ^Manor House were fast- 
ened and padlocked for the night, and the lights were all out 
in the lodge windows. For an instant or less Dora stood irres- 
olute, but then, remembering the wild and semi-savage habits 
of her girlhood, she slunk along into the dense shadows where 
an ornamental vine garlanded the wall, and climbing up the 
mass of rough stone work like a cat, she dropped lightly on 
the other side. 

And in this guise, Dora, Lady Branchley, entered the fair 
domains of her inheritance. 


156 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


The moon shone softly on the broad expanse of gleaniing 
gravel walks, the stars and crescents, and circles of brilliant- 
blossomed flowers, and the velvety surfaces of close-shorn 
lawn, as Dora hurried along, keeping as much as possible in 
the shadow, and starting nervously now and then as a white 
marble statue gleamed through the trees like a ghost rising up 
before her, or the uncertain light transformed the misty 
sparkle of falling fountains into the likeness of a phantom 
robe. 

Until, at last, the old house itself came in view, garlanded 
with rank sheets of ivy, and shadowed by great beeches and 
spreading linden-trees. Dora stood still, with a vague sensa- 
tion of awe, and looked up at the red glow of the illuminated 
casements. 

“ It is like a king’s palace,” the unsophisticated American 
girl murmured under her breath. “ It is a palace — and my 
Basil is the king! And 1 — oh, I am not the queen — 1 am only 
a poor beggar girl, standing out in the cold dew and the 
silence. Oh, if some one would only open the gate and let 
me in! He wouldn’t come to bid me welcome to-day, not 
even if he knew I was standing shivering here. He has ceased 
to care for me!” 

Poor Theodora! if she could only have known that at that 
"very moment Sir Basil was thinking of her with a great, ten- 
der longing at his heart; if she could have been made aware of 
that long, weary search across the Atlantic, which had resulted 
so unfavorably! She stood there, chilled and trembling in the 
night dew and shadows without; he sat, alone and sad, in his 
study, and there was but one narrow wall between them. If 
he had spoken the word “ Dora!” she would have heard his 
voice, and come sobbing and quivering to his heart; if she had 
cried out, he would have started up and answered her. And 
yet to all intents and purposes a gulf wider than the rush of 
foaming leaves parted their hearts. “ So near, and yet so 
far ” — ah, poor, poor Dora! Ah, wretched Basil, sitting all 
alone, in the somber splendors of thy lonely home! 

An instant she stood with drooping head and clasped hands, 
in the very stream of light that shone out from the solitary 
lamp beside which her husband was keeping vigil, but the 
fluttering folds of the Swiss curtains and the intertwining ivy 
leaves hid him from her view — only one instant, and then, 
moving slow and noiselessly, she glided along under the shin- 
ing casements, until she came to the low bay-window that 
opened from Lady Branchley’s own drawing-room. And, 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 15? 

tittracted by the sound of voices, she paused, and parting the 
clustering vines, looked in. 

Never in all her life had Dora seen so exquisite and taste- 
fully arranged an apartment as this same drawing-room of 
, Lady Branchley^s, with the light of myriad wax candles softly 
reflected from the yellow satin draperies and cornices of snow 
and gold, the clusters of hot-house roses piled in gilded 
baskets, and the dainty marqueterie tables, heaped with books 
and music, and implements of feminine work. Lady Branch- 
ley herself sat in a low shell-shaped easy-chair of white satin, 
corded and tasseled with gold, with a book in her hand — at 
her Dora gazed long and intently. 

“ How haughty she looks thought poor Dora. “ How 
cold and proud. Oh! I never, never can call her mother!’^ 

Just then the golden satin folds that hid an opposite door 
were lightly lifted, and a tall, beautiful girl, with jetty hair 
coiled around her head and transfixed by a diamond arrow, 
came in — a dark-eyed, southern-browed young beauty, with 
lovely long eyelashes, and cheeks glowing vividly, like the rich 
blooin of a pomegranate, while the white muslin dress she wore 
was edged with creamy lace, and dotted here and there with 
tiny bouquets of deep crimson roses. A wide sash of fringed 
crimson silk was looped carelessly around her slender waist, 
and bands of dead gold encircled her round, white arms. 

At the sight, Dora shrunk back as if a serpent had stung 
her, and clasped both hands over her heart; she knew, as if by 
intuition, who it was. 

Lady Augqsta Trente came forward with a smile. 

“ Dear, have you been lonely?^' she said. “ 1 would have 
come before, but I had all that copying to do. He is so ab- 
sorbed in it.'’’ 

Lady Branchley smiled lovingly — Dora no longer thought 
her coid and impassable — and drew the low satin chair close to 
her side, as Lady Augusta sunk gracefully into it. 

“ I must learn to give 5 ^ou up, clearest,” said she; “ and 1 
must school myself not to be jealous of my own son. When 
you are his wife, dear — ” 

But poor, tortured Dora lingered to hear no more. With a 
low, suppressed cry of anguish, she darted away, and lost her- 
self in the glossy wilderness of laurel and rhododendron shrub- 
beries. Lady Augusta looked up. 

“ What is that?” said she. 

* ‘‘ A night-bird, was it not?” Lady Branchley answered 

carelessly. 


158 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ It sounded like a human voice/’ said Lady Augusta, part- 
ing the filmy lace draperies and looking out. 

“ My darling girl, you are getting nervous,” said Lady 
Branchley, with a smile. 

And Theodora, pausing once more at the foot of the leafy 
beech avenue, through whose green arcade the lighted win- 
dows of the old manor house shone so cheerily, wrung her 
cold handstand shivered as if she were deadly chilled in the 
sultry summer air. 

“It is God’s Judgment on me,” she wailed aloud. “I 
flung his love away when it was all my own; now I am left to 
perish with heart-sickness. But, at least,” she added to her- 
self, as she looked around upon the fair domain, “ my jioor 
little deserted children have rights which shall be recognized. 
For myself, I care not what becomes of me, but my boy shall 
yet be the heir of Branchley.” 

And when Mrs. Howglas, who was always the earliest astir 
in her own house, came down to unbar the side door that led 
into the vegetable-garden, she uttered a shriek. 

“ What’s the matter, my dear?” said Mr. Howglas, who 
was yawning in the newly opened bar. 

“It’s that young woman as came by train last night!” 
screamed his spouse, “ and was a-inquirin’ about the manor 
house.” 

“ What of her?” demanded Mr. Howglas, who was always 
rather slow at imbibing sudden impressions. 

“ Why, she’s here!” said Mrs. Howglas, “ in a dead faint 
among the mint and peppergrass by the door, here!” 

It was quite true. Theodora had lain all night where she 
had fallen worn and exhausted in the heavy dew of the j)re- 
vious midnight. The long walk had completely exhausted her 
little stock of strength, and the torture of mind which she had 
undergone completed the work. And* as she came slowly 
back to consciousness, she looked wildly into Mrs. Howglas’s 
troubled gray orbs. 

“ Oh!” said she, “ I remember now. It is the village inn; 
and you are the landlady, ” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Howglas, infinitely relieved to hear 
her speak in accents of reason and. composure, yet much per- 
plexed nevertheless; “ won’t you' tell us who your friends 
are?” 

Dora looked at her for a moment, and then burst into a 
short, mocking laugh. 

“ My friends said she. “ 1 have no friends. l)o I look 
like a person that has friends?” 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


150 


Mrs. Howgfas turned to her liusband, who stood leaning 
against the door, scratching his head. 

“ Howglas,"’ said she, “ 1^1 tell you what I think I had 
better do; 1^11 send a note up to Mrs. Birchall, at the manor 
house. My lady is always most kind in cases of — ” 

But Dora had struggled into a sitting posture, and was feel- 
ing wildly around for her shawl. 

“No!’"’ cried she; “you shall not. I am no object of 
charity to your domineering Lady Branchleys. Give me my 
things and let me go on my way. 

“ But where would you go, dearie?^^ soothed Mrs. Howglas, 
who began to entertain dim fears that her guest was not quite 
in her right mind. 

“ To Southampton,^'’ Dora answered. 

“ Have you friends there 

“ I told you I had no friends, reiterated Dora, sharply; 
“ but there are people there who will help me; and 1 have 
money enough left to take me there, if once I could reach the 
railway station.’-’ 

Mrs. Howglas turned abruptly to her husband. 

“ Howglas,” said she, “ tell ’em to harness up the one- 
horse chaise at once. I’ll drive her over to the station at once, 
or we shall miss the train.” 

For Mrs. Howglas was in mortal fear lest she should be left 
with a sick stranger on her hands for an indefinite period of 
time. 

“ And 1 ain’t altogether sure as she’s quite right in her 
head,” said Mrs. Howglas confidentially to her husband, as 
she went out to put on her beaver driving gloves. “ If 
there’s any one as belongs to her in Southampton, the sooner 
she gets to ’em the better; that’s my opinion.” 

“ And mine, too,” said Mr. Howglas, dryly. 


CHAPTER XXVIl. 

’back to the hospital. 

“ I don’t know when I’ve been so tired,” said Dr. Annes- 
lie, wearily. 

It had been a trying day at St. Hilarius’s Hospital. The 
patients there were beginning to suffer from the long-contin- 
ued and fervid heats of summer; the weaker ones were drop- 
ping out of the world as dead leaves drift quietly from the 
trees; and those who were fortunate enough to possess more 
recuperative power had grown fretful and irritable in proper- 


160 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


tion. The accident cases turned and tossed in their especial 
ward; the fever patients in their own isolated building, counted 
the slow tickings of the clock, and tormented the attendants 
by ceaseless questions and complaints; and the convalescents 
were lest tractable of all. 

“ To be sure, sir, it^s a wearing business,’’ assented Mrs. 
Pom fret, who had been promoted to the more satisfactory 
position of “ matron,” and now stood with her pencil and lit- 
tle leather-covered memorandum-book, in which latter she had 
been jotting down the surgeon^ s various orders. “ And of all 
thankless creeturs, I do think — ” 

At that moment a little serving-maid, in the brown stulf 
gown and white muslin cap of the hospital brigade, tripped 
into the room in noiseless carpet slippers. 

“ If you please, Mrs. Pomfret, ma’am, is the doctor here?” 
said she, dropping a courtesy. 

“ Is the doctor here?” repeated Mrs. Pomfret. “ Why, 
Betsey Jane, don’t you see him yourself?” 

Betsey Jane acknowledged this piece of information by a 
second series of courtesies. 

“ Please, ma’am, it’s what I was told to ask,” said she, 
scarcely daring to lift up her eyes in the august presence of 
the hospital physician. “ And if he is in — ” 

“ Of course he’s in,” sharply interposed the matron. 

“ Yes’m,” courtesied Betsey Jane. “ But it’s what I was 
told to say.” 

“ For charity’s sake, Mrs. Pomfret,” said the doctor, ‘‘ let 
lier tell her story her own way. ” 

‘‘ Go on, Betsey Jane,” said Mrs. Pomfret, resignedly. 

“ Yes’m,” said Betsey Jane. “ There’s a young person in 
the reception-roopi axin’ to see him, ma’am.” 

” A woman, Betsey Jane?” 

“ A lady, ma’am, I think.” 

Dr. Anneslie looked down upon the little white-capped maid 
with a comical curl of his lip. 

“ Child,” said he, “ where do you draw the dividing line?” 

“Sir?” fluttered Betsey Jane. 

“ What makes you think this person is a ‘ lady,’ and not 
a ‘ woman?’ ” 

“ If you please, sir,” said Betsey Jane, nervously plaiting 
the border of her apron, “ she speaks so soft and clear like, 
and she wears a black shawl!” 

“ Oh!” said Dr. Anneslie, smiling. “ Well, Betsey Jane, 
"you may go and tell this person in the black shawl that I’ll 
be down presently.” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


161 


“ Please to excuse her, sir/^ said Mrs. Pomfret, as Betsey 
Jane dropped a parting courtesy and disappeared. “ She 
means well, but she ain^t bright.^'’- 

“ She is a very nice little girl,^'’ said Dr. Anneslie; “ and 
she has a fair idea of character. Well, Pomfret, you'll be 
very particular about the bromide of potassium for No. 18, and 
see that they don’t let 65 have too many of those quieting 
powders. And if there are any signs of inflammation setting 
in around that broken ankle in 43, let Mr. Jenks know at 
once. In such weather as this, it won’t do to run any risks.” 

“Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Pomfret. And. Dr. Anneslie 
ran down the cool stone stairs three steps at a time, and strode 
into the reception-room, a high-ceiliuged, uninviting-looking 
apartment, with its floor covered with checked matting, and 
chairs set stiffly around the wall, while a big round table, con- 
taining a “ Visitors’ Pegister,” occupied its center. As he 
entered, a slight figure in black, which had been leaning out 
of the window, rose up and advanced. 

“ Doctor Anneslie,” said Dora. 

“Why, it is No. 45!” exclaimed the good-natured physi- 
cian. “ Mrs. Bracy, the name was, wasn’t it?” 

And he took the little cold hand in his, with a friendly 
warmth of greeting which was inexpressibly grateful to the 
poor solitary wanderer upon the face of the earth. 

“ Yes, doctor,” said Dora, with a faint smile, “ it is 1.” 

Dr. Anneslie looked scrutinizingly at her, and shook his 
head. 

“ You don’t look quite as strong as Samson yet,” said he. 
“ Well, how about the husband? Did you find him?” 

Dora’s face crimsoned. Her eyes involuntarily shrunk from 
the doctor’s questioning glance. 

“No,” she answered, almost inaudibly; “1 did not find 
him. But, doctor, I have come to ask your help and advice. 
Please, please do not turn away from me, for 1 have no friend 
in all the world but you.” 

“ What kind of help?” said the doctor, who was, alas! but 
too well used to this sort of piteous appeal; “ and what sort 
of advice? No, my poor child, you need not fear that I shall 
turn from you. ” 

“ I want to get back to America,” said Dora, lifting her 
large, pleading eyes to the doctor’s face. 

“ To America?” Dr. Anneslie fluttered the leaves of the 
“ Visitors’ Eegister ” in surprise. “ But why don’t you stay 
here? 1 might perhaps, in time, get you a place as nurse, or 
assistant; or something, in the hospital here.” 

6 


162 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ I must get back to America/^ cried Dora, wildly. “ 1 
must! Oh, doctor, please help me to get back home, iu some 
way, no matter how hard or humble!'' 

Dr. Anneslie looked at her in some surprise and doubt. He 
had seen too many cases of sad domestic dissensions in his hos- 
pital experience to have supposed that Dora Bracy would find 
the husband of whom she professed to be in search; nay, there 
were times in which he doubted the existence of the husband 
altogether. But there could be no question as to the intensity 
of her eager longing to get back once more to her native land. 

“ I know the officers of the ‘ Eoyal Beatrice,' " said he, 
after a minute or two of thought, “ and I might get you a 
chance to work your passage across, if — " 

“ Oh, doctor, I should be so glad— so thankful!" 

“ My good girl," said Dr. Anneslie, imperatively, “ will 
you hear me through? I said ?/you were willing to take some 
very humble and menial part in the stewardess's depart- 
ment. " 

" 1 would scrub floors!" cried out Dora, “ and be grateful 
for the opportunity to do it. " 

Dr. Anneslie smiled. “ I do not think they will ask you 
to do that," said he. “ However, the ‘ Eoyal Beatrice ' is in 
port now; she will probably sail in a day or two, and I will see 
Mr. Bonfill, the purser, at once. Where are you lodging?" 

Dora colored and hesitated. “ After all," said she, “ why 
should 1 be ashamed to confess that I have no home? 1 came 
directly from the railway station here." 

“ Have you had any breakfast?" the doctor demanded, 
brusquely. 

“Ho, sir," confessed Dora, in a low voice, “except some 
crackers that a lady left on the seat in the railway depot." 

Dr. Anneslie rang the bell. “ Pomf ret, " said he to the 
matron, “ here is No. 45 come back to us. Give her some 
tea and toast, and a poached egg, and find some hemming or 
something for her to do for a day or two." 

“ Yes, sir," said Mrs. Pomfret, smiling a kindly welcome 
to poor Dora. And so Dr. Anneslie hurried away, glancing 
at his watch as he went. 

The great front door of St. Hilarius's Hospital had hardly 
clanged behind Dr. Anneslie when Dora burst into tears. 

“ Don't cry, my dear," said Mrs. Pomfret, “but come 
along with me, that's a good girl." 

“ I don't know what I have done to deserve such kindness 
as this," sobbed poor Dora. 

“It ain't we, child," said the matron; “it's the doctor. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 163 

And if ever there was a Good Samaritan, it’s he, and that’s 
morally certain.” 

Dr. Anneslie came back the next morning in high spirits. 

“I’ve found a berth for you, 45,” said he. “Assistant 
stewardess in the ‘ Royal Beatrice ’ to wait on the seasick 
ladies and children, make yourself generally useful, and see to 
the table-linen.” 

“ 1 can do that,” cried Dora, joyfully, “ because — ” 

“ Well?” The doctor looked keenly at her as she paused 
with downcast eyes and burning cheeks. 

“Because,” added Dora, “we used to do a deal of fine 
washing and ironing at home, my sister and I. And so I’m 
used to it.” 

For it never occurred to Dora to be ashamed of the humble 
origin from which she had sprung. 

“ All the better for you now,” said the doctor, laughing at 
Mrs. Pomfret’s face of dismay. “ Get your things on and be 
all ready by the time I am through my rounds upstairs. The 
‘Royal Beatrice’ sails at noon to-morrow, and you must be 
on board to-day. Come, Pomfret, I shall want you with the 
prescription-book. ” 

“ So she’s only a working- woman, after all,” said Mrs. 
Pomfret, as she followed Dr. Anneslie into the first ward. 

“ Did you take her for a princessJn disguise?” said the doc- 
tor, laughing. 

“ AVell, no, sir, not quite that,” said Mrs. Pomfret, rather 
discomfited at his tone of satire; “but she had such a great 
many genteel ways with her that I made sure she was a re- 
duced lady. ” 

“ There are different styles of lady in this world, Pomfret,” 
said the doctor. “ And it is my opinion that our little brown- 
eyed American belongs to the guild, in spite of the washing 
and ironing question. Now let" me have the ward-book, and 
we’ll begin our day’s work.” 

And when Dr. AnReslie had gone the round of the hospital 
patients, he took Dora Bracy into his brougham and rattled 
off down to the docks with her, studying his pocket tablets 
upon the way. 

Dora looked timidly at him as the carriage whirled along, 
and wondered if he was always so busy and preoccupied. 

“ //e liRS no time to think and brood and wear his heart 
out,” thought she. “ Oh. if / were only a man, with my 
heart and hands full! Oh, why does Heaven make women so 
weak, and then lay such heavy burdens upon them?” 

Miss Brydges, the stewardess of the “ Royal Beatrice,” was 


164 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


a brisk, wiry woman, very tall and very thin, with a tongue 
that wagged incessantly, a queer little way of biting off the 
ends of her sentences, and sharp black eyes that seemed to 
take in everything at once. She surveyed Dora rather doubt- 
fully when the purser’s clerk brought her down to the little 
round room like an illuminated well, where she was engaged 
in marking towels. The young American was pale and shrink- 
ingS and her eyelashes were still wet with tears," for she had 
just bidden kind Dr. Anneslie adieu. Miss Brydges looked 
hard at Dora; Dora stood regarding the inlaid wooden floor 
through a mist of tears. 

“ Here she is, Miss Brydges,” said the purser’s clerk, who 
was in a hurry to get back to his own department. 

“ Why, it’s only a child!” said Miss Brydges, disdainfully. 

“ 1 am a married woman,” said Dora, with all the dignity 
she could muster. 

You /” snorted Miss Brydges. 

“Yes, y,” said Dora. 

“ Where’s your husband, then?” said the stewardess, tart- 
ly. Dora lifted her large dark eyes to her face. 

“ 1 don’t think you have any right to ask,” said she. Miss 
Brydges burst out laughing. 

“So more 1 have,” said she. “ You’re right there, child. 
But you r/o look young. Sit down and take off your things, 
and ITl give you these towels to sort over and distribute, until 
the next basket of linen comes in.” 

For Miss Brydges had a generous stratum through her nat-^ 
lire, and liked Dora Bracy none the less for her defiant retort. 
And during the sea voyage that ensued, Dora had many a rea- 
son to like and respect the tall and venom-tongued old lady. 

“ Good-bye, my dear,” said Miss Brydges, as they parted 
on the fore-deck of the “ Boyal Beatrice.” “If you can’t 
find your friends — ” 

“ Oh, but I shall,” interrupted Dora, with a staftled look. 

“ Why shouldn’t 1?” 

“ Things don’t always turn out just exactly as we expect 
’em,” said Miss Brydges, oracularly. “ Or if anything hap- 
pens, or you find yourself in trouble, come to the office of the 
Imperial Mail Steamship Company, and ask for me, and 
the ‘ Royal Beatrice!’ ” 

“ Thanks,” said Dora, wistfully, “ you are very kind, but it 
isn’t likely that I shall come back here, for 1 am going to my 
children, you know. ” 

“ Poor little birdie,” thought Miss Brydges, looking after 
the slight, girlish form, as it threaded its slow way among the 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


165 


bales and packages and piled-up trunks on the pier. “Her 
children, indeed — and she such a baby herself! The Lord 
have mercy on the whole lot of "em, that’s all I’ve got to 
say!” 


CHAPTER XXVm. 

GONE. 

The fitful and uncertain light of the September moon was 
shining through racks of cloud upon the old farm-house on the 
Saratoga road; the moaning wind of the early autumn rustled 
the leaves of the gaunt old poplar -trees, and everything bore a 
dreary and deserted appearance, as Theodora Branchley toiled 
with slow and weary footsteps up the old familiar path. Her 
slender funds had barely sufficed to pay her fare by the 
cheapest method of travel between New York and Saratoga;_ 
she had sat up all night, in the close and confined atmosphere” 
of the ladies’ cabin of the steamboat, because she could not 
spare the additional fifty cents which were necessary to secure 
a berth, and breakfasted off two or three sour baker’s rolls 
and a cup of very indifferent coffee at a stand in Albany, on 
the way to the Rensselaer and Saratoga depot. She had just 
missed the morning train because she had walked, instead of 
riding in the street cars from boat landing to railroad station, 
and had sat all day counting the minutes with heartsick 
eagerness, until the afternoon tram steamed out. She had 
looked, alas! how wistfully, at the delicious red-cheeked peaches 
and fragrant grapes which are brought through the train by 
boy-venders, but had been compelled to make. her dinner off 
half a pound of crackers — and when at last they reached Sara- 
toga, she had got off the cars with a sick, dizzy feeling, which 
was partly induced by loss of sleep, and partly by insufficient 
food. But Dora took no thought of herself — she was think- 
ing of her children — the little ones she had not seen in so 
many long months — as she walked hurriedly along. 

“ They’ll remember me, of course,” she said to herself, 
smiling in the gray, uncertain twilight. “ They couldn’t for- 
get me in so little a while. Walter will spring up and clap 
his plump -hands and cry out ‘Mamma, mamma!’ and Nell 
will sit on the floor and look up with those great wondering 
eyes of hers, until she comprehends who it really is, and then 
how she will laugh and shower kisses^ll over my face! Joanna 
will scold, of course, because I have sent no money, but 1 can 
easily explain matters to Joanna.” 

And so, all along the dreary, tedious way, poor little Dora 


1G6 


LOVE AT SAliATOGA. 


beguiled the time by fond anticipations of the meeting with 
her little ones. She had looked forward to it for so long; she 
had pondered on it night and day ; she had dreamed of it when 
she was tossing in the solitary midnight watches on the great 
green waves of the Atlantic; and, now that it was so close at 
hand, she felt the pulses of her heart stop, the blood stand 
still in her veins. 

The night was chilly, with a restless wind, whose cooling 
balm touched Dora's face ever and anon, yet she paused to 
wipe the beads of perspiration away from her forehead, as she 
came in sight of the old farm-house. And with a sudden 
pang of fear she took note of the ominous circumstance that 
-there were no lights in the windows, and that all the lower 
shutters were closed and barred. 

“ It is just like Joanna," said Dora, with a nervous laugh. 
“ She always did grudge the expense of candles. But 1 dare 
say she is at the back of the house. And the children will be 
in bed; but I must wake them up to feel their little clinging 
arms around my neck just once before 1 sleep." 

She lifted the rusted iron latch of the gate and went in; the 
weeds, grown even taller and more rank than when Sir Basil 
Branchley's charioteer made his way through their bush wil- 
dernesses, reached almost to her shoulders as she attempted to 
make her way around to the back of the house. 

“ How careless Joanna is!" she thought, impatiently. 
“ AVe never used to let the weeds grow so high as this. I 
must turn out with the shears to-morrow and cut them 
down." 

She hurried to the back door, where a half -dead honey- 
suckle vine hutig down from its fastenings, and tapped with a 
sepulchral sound against the shutterless windows. There was 
no light here neither. Dora pressed her hot face against the 
panes of glass to look into the kitchen. 

All was solitary and deserted. The faint reflection of the 
uncertain moonlight lay in trembling squares on the bare 
board floor; the dark shadows lurked in all the corners like 
black palls, and a deadly chill struck to Dora's heart. 

The house is empty!" she cried aloud. “Oh, kind 
Heaven! they are gone away!" 

For a moment she stood quite still, her white face turned 
up toward the moonlight, which just then streamed radiantly 
through a rift in the gray masses of cloud, her hands clasped 
above her head. -And then suddenly remembering the old 
habits of her childhood, she stooped down and searched eager- 
ly under a crevice of the door-stone for the key of the kitchen 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


167 


door, which was invariably left there when Joanna was absent 
from the house. It was just possible that it might be there 
still. 

As her fingers groped about in the darkness, something 
clinked with a metallic sound against the . stones — the key 
itself! Snatching it eagerly up, she fitted it with tremulous 
fingers into its wards. It was rusted with long disuse, but she 
succeeded in moving the lock with it, and pushed the door 
open. 

“ Joanna!^^ she called out, with beating heart, as she stood 
still in the midst of the desolate kitchen; “ Joanna!'^ 

But only the sound of her own voice returned to her, like a 
mocking echo. 

She hurried up the creaking wooden stairs and into the dis- 
mantled chambers above. In the room which she and her lit- 
tle ones had occupied, the moon was shining spectrally and an 
owl, disturbed in its lurking-place, flew past her with a hide- 
ous shriek, and escaped through a broken pane of glass. 

Dora fell on her knees in the middle of the floor, with her 
face buried in her hands. 

“ Am I dreamiug?^^ she muttered, in a voice which sounded 
strangely hollow in her own ears. “ Is this a hideous night- 
mare? Oh, no, no! It is too true — too terribly real! She is 
gone; she has taken my little ones away, and I know not 
where to find them.'’^ 

She stood a minute with one hand pressed over her burning ' 
forehead, striving to collect her scattered thoughts. 

“ Keuben will know where she is,'^ she said aloud. “ Of 
course she will have told Keuben. How silly of me not to 
have thought of it before. Perhaps she has moved into the 
village, to be nearer her customers. Perhaps she had a good 
opportunity to sell the old place — and here I am, terrifying 
myself into a fever over the merest trifle in the world. ’’ 

She laughed hysterically — and the owl, that had taken ref- 
uge in the pines at the back of the house, answered with an 
eldritch cry. Involuntarily she shuddered and grew pale. 

“ I will go to Keuben,^^ she said, folding her scanty shawl 
across her bosom. “ He will tell me. Reuben Hallo well was 
always kind to me.^^ 

Once more she crept down the stairs, scarcely daring to look 
behind her, for the old childhood ""s terror of some gray, glid- 
ing form close behind her seemed to have taken possession of 
her all of a sudden: the very rustle of her dress on the worn 
wooden ledges seemed to check her heart beats, and the reso- 
nant clang of ^ the closing door struck a thrill of superstitious 


16S 


]X)TK AT SARATOGA. 


terror through her frame. And she almost ran through the 
iioor-yard, where the tall weeds waved to and fro in the 
night wind, and a starved cat darted across her path, with 
, green, gleaming eyes, and a tail of portentous size. 

Once safe without the dilapidated picket fence, and she 
breathed more freely. Two miles further, in her present state 
of exhaustion and fatigue, was no slight distance; but she 
never thought of her own weariness as she hurried on, looking 
wistfully up at the one or two lighted houses that she passed. 

“ I will go to Eeuben,^^ she kept repeating to herself. 
“ Eeuben will know!” 

As she at length approached the Hallowell farm-house, a 
cheery red light streamed out across the hedge of lilac bushes 
under the kitchen window. 

“ They are at home,” she thought. “ 1 am glad of that!” 

She knocked softly at the door— and after a minute or two, 
during which she could hear the sound of footsteps move to 
and fro in the interior of the house, a candle flame was seen 
to gleam through the fan-lights of the door, and the bolts and 
bars are drawn back with a grating sound. And then the 
door was opened about an inch, and Mrs. Eeuben Hallowelks 
sharp face, illumined after a Eembrandtesque fashion by her 
dip-caudle, became visible. 

“Hey?” barked out Mrs. Hallowell. “ Who^s there? 
And what’s wantin’, at this time o’ night?” 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Hallowell?” said Dora, trying to 
smile. “ Is Eeuben at home?” 

Mrs. Hallowell projected her face an inch or two further 
toward the porch, and held the candle a little higher up. 

“ Oh!'' she said, suddenly, recoiling. “It’s Theodora! 
Well, I am surprised!” 

“ Yes,” said Dora, “ it is I. Where’s your husband?” 

“ AVhere’s yours?" retorted the virago, making no motion 
to ojDen the door for the admission of her unwelcome visitor. 

Dor^ shrunk back as from the prick of a dagger. 

“ He is in England,” said she, faintly. “ At least, I sup- 
jDOse so. But I would rather not talk about him.” 

“Humph!” said Mrs. Hallowell, “I wasn’t aware as you 
was too good to be asked any questions.” 

“ Is Eeuben at home?” ventured Dora, once more. 

“ No, he ain’t,” said Mrs. Hallowell, curtly. 

“ Do you think he will soon be back?” 

“ 1 can’t say,” said Mrs. Hallowell. 

Dora shivered as the chill night wind fluttered the fringes 
of her shawl, and made the candle flame flicker and flare. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 169 

“ I think that I will come in and wait/^ said she. ‘‘ 1 dare 
say he will not be long.'’^ 

“ No, you won't, Mrs. Branchley," said Mrs. Hallowell, the 
end of her nose becoming very red, and her pale eyes scintillat- 
ing fire; “ 1 hope you won't take it uncivil, but if it's all the 
same to you, I don't care to have no grass widows about my 
place, more especially grass widows as was known to be sweet 
upon my husband afore he was married to me. I dare say as 
it's all very right for you to be runnin' away and leavin' your 
children for your sister to take care of, and then runnin' back 
again just when the fancy takes you — it may be foreign man- 
ners, but it don't suit me! So if you'll please to excuse me, 
p'r'aps you'd better go elsewhere." 

And without further ceremon}’, she shut the door in poor 
frightened Dora's face, sliding in the bolts and turning the 
creaking locks with very unnecessary noise. 

Dora turned away, vaguely terrified and sick at heart. 
What had she done to be thus insulted and scorned, and shut 
out from all the common civilities of life? And what did 
Reuben Hallowell '-s sharp-tongued wife mean by that allusion 
of hers to Dora's leaving her children? 

She hastened down the road scarcely knowing whither she 
was going, her-only idea being to place as wide a distance as 
possible between herself and the cold, cruel woman who had 
dared thus to speak to her. And as she entered the deep shad- 
ows of a lonely pine glen which skirted the road for a little 
distance, she ran against a man. 

“ Take care!" said a deep, but not unkindly voice. “ Folks 
as goes along without lookin' afore 'em generally runs up 
against snags, afore they gets through. " 

“ Reuben!" cried, out Dora, with a curious commingling of 
sob and laugh in her throat. “ Oh, Reuben— is it you?" 

“ My senses alive!" ejaculated Reuben Hallowell. “ Why, 
it canH be — and yet, 1 do believe it's Dora! Why — Do-m\” 

And by way of reply, Dora sat down on a fallen log beside 
the road, and" burst out into tears and spbs. Reuben stood 
over her, in a puzzled way. 

“Don't, Dora!" pleaded he, “now, don’t! You don't 
know how it hurts me to see you do like that. J ump up now, 
that's a good girl, and I'll take you right straight home. with 
me, where you can set down by the fire, and rest a spell, and 
drink a cup of tea." 

“ 1 have been there," said Dora, trying to speak articulate- 
ly through her tears. “ I asked for you. I wanted to come 
in, but she turned me away!" 


170 


LOYP: at SARATOGA. 


“ Do you mean — 

“ 1 mean your wife.^’ 

Reuben turned his face aside, set his teeth hard, and clinched 
his hands until the nails cut into the flesh. 

“ Qon-found that woman he muttered, under his breath. 
“ But just you look hero, Dora. We'll go back together, you 
and me, and I'll show Almiry who's master in the house, she 
or me. Come!" 

“ No," said Dora, drawing back, with an inscrutable look 
on her face. “ Never to that house again!" 

^‘Dora!" 

“ I know you mean kindl}^ Reuben," said she, “ but you 
don't know how it hurts to have such words as that spoken in 
one's ears. But after all, that matters little," she added, 
speaking rapidly and laying her hand on his arm. “ You will 
tell me, Reuben, will you not?" 

“ Tell you what, Dora?''' The strong man's heart melted 
like wax at the pathos of her voice, the pleading earnestness 
of her face as she stood there in the deep, scented shadow of 
the pines. 

“ Where they are gone. Joanna — and my children?" 

Reuben staggered back a pace or two in genuine surprise. 

“ Don't you know, Dora?" 

“I?" she cried out, wildly. “ llow should I know? I left 
my little ones here, a little while ago. Joanna promised me 
to care for them, and take my place to them while 1 was gone 
— and now 1 come back and they are not here. She should 
have written to me; she should have told me — but, good 
heavens! how should she know anything of the holy mysteries 
of a mother's love? Where is she, Reuben? where has she 
taken my little ones? That is all that I want to know!" 

“ Well, I declare," cried poor Reuben, in dire perplexity, 
“ if this don’t beat all! Joanna, she went round and told 
everybody that you'd deserted the children, and left 'em on 
her hands. " 

“I?" shrieked Dora. “ Deserted my own children?" 

“ I told 'em 1 didn't believe a word of it," said Reuben. 
“ 1 told 'em it wasn't noways like you, but she made all the 
neighborhood believe it, and then she got some grand folks to 
adopt Walter." 

“ To adopt my child?" cried Dora, frantic with grief and 
terror. “ To take my boy away from his own mother!" 

“ Yes," nodded Reuben; “ and she brought Nell to our 
house — said she was goin' away somewhere or other — that's 
Joanna, I mean—and wanted us to take Nelly. I'd have been 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


171 


proper glad, 1 can tell you, for I always had a soft spot in my 
heart for Nell, but Almiry she wouldn’t hear a word of it — 
so what does Joanna do but takes Nelly up to the poor-house 
at Chichester.” 

Dora had grown white with anger, save where two scarlet 
spots glowed deeply on her cheeks. 

“ To the — poor-house!” she gasped. “ My little Nell! 
Reuben, Reuben, you must be dreaming!” 

“ No, I ain’t,” said Reuben. “ It’s true enough, more’s 
the pity. She left Nell at the poor-house; but you know Nell 
always was a dreadful taking child, and they set a deal of 
store by her there, and made a reg’lar little poppet of her. ” 

“ My baby,” repeated Dora, wringing her hands, “in the 
poor-house! Oh, God help me! what dreadful crime have I 
committed to deserve a punishment like this?” 

“Now, you’re making a deal too much of it,” said Reuben. 
“ The child had a good home enough, and as I told you afore 
they made a deal of fuss over her. And Joanna, she cleared 
out, bag and baggage, and the furniture is sold, and there’s a 
‘ To Let, or For Sale ’ on the house half as big as a barn door, 
and — ” 

“ Do not tell me of the house — what do 1 care for the 
house?” burst out impatient Dora. “Joanna — where is 
she 

“ We don’t know,” said Reuben. “ Nobody knows. We 
kind o’ calculate she didn’t mean folks to know. Well, but 
that ain’t all. She hadn’t been gone a month hardly afore 
along comes your husband, the grand English gentleman.” 

Dora put her hand over her heart, as if the firm pressure 
could quell its stormy beating. 

“ My husband,” she repeated. “ Did — did he ask for me?” 

Reuben shook his head gloomily. “ He was dreadful put 
out with you about something or another,” said he. “ At 
least so Mahala Mussel said — he went there to inquire of 
Mahala, when he found the old homestead shut up—” 

“ Ah!” thought poor Dora, with a sickening faintness at 
her heart, “ he had seen Lady Augusta Trente— he had had 
an opportunity to compare her with poor, poor me!” 

“ But,” went on Reuben, “ he was dead set to find the chil- 
dren. And he went up to the poor-house, and got Nell, and 
took her away with a fine lady nurse as proud as Punch.” 

“ And Wally, too?” gashed Dora. “ Did he take away my 
boy — my little curly-haired lad?” 

“ How could he?” said Reuben. “ Didn’t I tell you? 


17.2 LOVE AT SARATOGA. 

Wally was adopted out to some one as saw him playin’ round 
under Joanna’s feet and took a dreadful shine to him.” 

“ But who was it?” 

“ Joanna never told me.” 

“ And where has he gone?” wildly questioned Dora. 

“ It was a fine lady as was stopping somewhere in Saratoga 
for her health, but she’s gone away long ago, and taken the 
boy with her. And there can’t no trace be found of ’er. 
Your husband — Sir Basil they call him now, don’t they — had 
the ^lice and a lot of New York detectives up here, but it 
wasn’t no use!” 

And all the agonized questions which Dora could ask elicited 
no further information from honest Reuben. He had told all 
that he knew, and he was no coniurer to invent anything 
more. 

She fiung herself wildly on the road-side bank, wet with 
evening dew, and cushioned with soft pine needles, and gave 
way to a tempest of tears and sobs which rent poor Reuben’s 
very heart. 

“Don’t take on so, Dolly — now don’t!” said Reuben, re- 
lapsing unconsciously into an old caressing appellation of their 
girl and boy days. “ It’ll all come right, now see if it don’t. 
Most things comes right, if only'^ou can have patience to 
wait. Don't, Dolly!” softly patting her shoulders with the 
tips of his great horny fingers. “ You’ll fret yourself into a 
fever, and then what will become of you? And now I think 
of it,” fumbling in all his pockets, “ there’s a letter addressed 
to Joanna in my very vest-pocket now. ” 

Dora sat up, dashing the streaming tears from her eyes, 
with a gleam of hope irradiating her heart. 

“A — letter! for Joanna,” she cried out. “Oh, let me 
have it; perhaps it is about Walter; perhaps it will afford me 
some clew to his whereabouts.” 

“ The postmaster he asked me if I could d;ell him where 
Joanna was,” said Reuben, producing a dirty and much be- 
thumbed missive. “ I told him I had {Sir Basil’s address as 
the detective officer writ down on. a piece of paper, and likely 
he would know, if I didn’t. And I was a-goin’ to forward it 
to the detective office, in New York, when I got a chance to 
do it without Almiry’s findin’ it out. For the very name of 
Beck is enough to set Almiry on pins and needles.” 

“ Give it to me!” cried Dora, hurrying out of the glade to 
where the moonbeams could light up her newly found treas- 
ure. 

But, alas! how heavily her head sunk once more, when. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


173 


tearing open the soiled envelope, she recogiiied only her own 
old letter, dictated to Mrs. Pomfret months ago, and mailed 
from Southampton. 

“ Then she never got it!^^ cried Dora, faintly. ‘‘ Oh, what 
frightful mystery is this?"’ 

She tore the letter into scraps, and scattered them passion- 
ately on the wind. 

“ What^s that for, Dora?’^ remonstrated Reuben. “ DonT 
you know Pm responsible for that there letter to the post- 
office department?’^ 

‘‘ It’s mine,” said Dora. “ I wrote it myself — or at least 
I dictated it. And is this all that you know, Reuben?” 

All,” nodded Reuben, “ and all that any one else knows. 
Come, Dora, it’s gettin’ fate, and the wind blows up cold. 
Come back home with me, to-night, at least.” 

She snatched her arm angrily from his grasp. 

“ Never!” cried she. “ Have 1 not told you so once 
already?” 

“ You’re goin’ to Mahala Mussel’s then?” 

“ No — yes, what does it matter where 1 go?” passionately 
demanded poor, half-crazed Dora. “ My husband has ceased 
to love me, and 1 have lost both my little ones — what matters 
it where I hide my head now?” 

“But, Dora—” 

“ 1 can’t stop to talk any longer now,” said she, wildly. 
“ Good-bye, Reuben — you mean well, but you can’t under- 
stand how 1 feel. , No one can. Good-bye!” 

And she vanished into the pine woods like a dissolvir 
shadow. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MISS JOSCELYM. 

All that weary night Theodora Rranchley wandered up and 
down the road where the ghostly poplars rustled in the wind, 
and the wan moonlight crept with silver feet over the peaked 
roof of the old house. Once she went around to the back, 
and, sitting down by the Great Rock at the foot of the garden, 
slaked her thirst in the cool, dripping waters of the spring, 
and bathed her forehead in the crystal drops. Ah, how long 
it seemed since she had sat there as a girl, with the old, be- 
thumbed novels in her lap, and the bright, vague dreams of 
an ideal love-life floating through her brain! Could it be pos- 
sible that she, this worn, haggard, heart-broken woman, was 
the same Dora Beck who had so often hidden away under the 


174 


LOVE AT SAEATOCtA. 


drooping branches [of the pear boughs from Joanna’s shrill 
tongue and sharp, critical eye, and lost all her annoyances and 
perplexities in the magical pages of some hewitching love 
story? No need, now, to have recourse to books for romance, 
and sorrow, and ever-recurring complications. Poor little 
Dora! — she had yearned to be the heroine of a novel, and now 
that her aspirations had all been fulfilled, she stood wringing 
her hands in the spectral moonlight, and wishing that she 
were dead. 

“ Oh, Joanna,” she whispered, looking up to the little case- 
ment opening from the room which had once-been Joanna’s, 
“ how could you be so cruel! I trusted them to you and you 
have failed me! But 1 will forgive you, all, all, Joanna, if 
you will only come back and tell me where my little Walter 
is! He’s mine, Joanna, a part of my life, and being, and 
heart; he never felt a pang but it cut through my own heart 
also, he never uttered a cry that did not pierce my soul! My 
little gold-haired, velvet-cheeked boy, with the diamond eyes 
and the voice that was like music! and he is gone away from 
me and 1 do not know where. They have hidden him. ” 

And hurrying around and around the house, with wild 
haunting eyes and face deathly pale in the moonlight, Theodora 
kept her vigil until the gray light broke along the eastern hori- 
zon and the stars faded away, one by -one, and an instinctive 
dread of discovery induced her to shrink once more into the 
gloomy recesses of the Great Kock where the wild grape- 
vines formed a natural drapery and the dropping pear boughs 
nearly touched the ground. For poor Dora was like the 
woimded fawn that covets solitude and isolation in its sore 
distress. 

it must have been about eight o’clock, so far as she could 
judge of the progress of time, when Dora heard Reuben Hallo- 
well’s voice in front of the house, calling her, and saw the old 
white horse tied to a tree at the gate. 

“ She ain’t here!” said Reuben, in a disappointed tone. 

“ I told you she wouldn’t be,” retorted the voice of Abra- 
ham Mosher, the man who kept the corner store by the mill. 
“ What on earth should bring her to an old deserted hole like 
this, without a spark of fire, or a mouthful' of anything to eat 
or drink?” 

“ 1 don’t know,” said Reuhen, dubiously. “ You see, 
Bram, 1 kind o’ thought she wasn’t quite right here,” tap- 
ping his forehead, “ and I thought it only natural and likely 
as she’d come here to the old home.” 

“ Not she,” said Abraham, disdainfully. “ And besides, if 


OVE AT SARATOGA. 


175 


you had found her, Reuben, what would you have done with 

“ Rd a-took her home!^^ declared the young farmer. 

“ The asylum^s the place for her, if she really is cracked in 
the upper story,-^' said Mosher, carelessly. “ Come, you’ve 
been through the house, and looked in every room, and you’re 
certain she ain’t here. Let’s go on.” 

“ 1 never felt so sorry for any one in my life,” said Reuben, 
dolefully. “ 1 declare, it was a mean thing of Joanna Beck 
to go off so!” 

And the footsteps of the two men shuffled along through 
the tall grass and weeds, and the sound of receding wheels 
told Dora that she was once more alone. 

But Reuben Hallowell’s words had not been lost upon her. 
The asylum! Did that mean a hideous place of restraint for 
those who had drifted beyond the reach of all human kindness 
or charity — a pandemonium of unsettled brains and howling 
madness? 

“ I am not mad,” she told herself. “ No one shall dare to 
hint that I am.” 

And creeping quietly through the back fields, she hastened 
away, with cheeks blanched with a new and terrible fear. 

“ I will go back to England,” she told herself. “ Not to 
him — not to the husband whose love I have long since for- 
feited; that is all past arid gone. But to some place where I 
can be near my Nelly, even though Nelly should never recog- 
nize me, save as the merest stranger. For, although 1 love 
her too dearly to interpose myself between her and the sunshine 
of prosperity, 1 mud see her now and then or I shall die of , 
heart-starvation. ” 

Miss Brydges was drinking a leisurely cup of tea, in the lit- 
tle oval den in the “ Royal Beatrice,” when a knock sounded 
at the door, and Dora appeared before her, haggard and travel- 
worn, with great eyes shining preternaturally bright, and 
cheeks glowing with hectic red. 

Well, 1 declare,” said Miss Brydges. It’s Mrs. Bracy!” 

“Yes,” said Dora, sinking into a chair, “it is I. You 
told me to come back to you if ever 1 wanted a friend. Miss 
Brydges; but I suppose you hardly expected that I should claim 
your promise so soon?” 

“ Well, no,” said Miss Brydges, “I didn’t. But I’m a 
woman of my word, and what I say 1 stick to. Sit down, 
Mrs. Bracy, and have a cup of tea and a waffle, with a bit of 
quince-marmalade to keep it company.” 


176 


LOVETT SAKATOGA. 

Dora eat and drank with famished eagerness. Miss Brydges 
sat looking on with puzzled eyes. 

“ So you didnH succeed in finding your friends?^^ said she. 

“ No/" said Dora, with a shudder. 

“ And what are you going to do now?"" asked the steward- 
ess, looking thoughtfully into the tea-pot, as if it were a well- 
spring of inspiration. 

“ t want to work my passage back to England,"" said Dora. 

“ You"re too late,"" said Miss Brydges. “ We"ve engaged a 
young woman in your place."" 

Dora uttered a little despairing exclamation. 

“ Oh!"" cried she, “ what shall I do?"" 

“ But,"" added Miss Brydges, “ so far as 1 can see, you"re 
the very woman for Miss Joscelyn."" 

“For — Miss Joscelyn?"" said Dora, looking up with wide- 
open eyes of surprise. 

“ For Miss Joscelyn,"" nodded the stewardess. 

“ Who is she?"" questioned Dora. 

“ An old lady as has engaged passage for noon to-day,"" said 
Miss Brydges. 

“ K 'Acre is she?” 

“ In her state-room now, crying and scolding because her 
maid was secretly married to the head-waiter at the Crampton 
Hotel, where she’s been staying, and declines to 'go back to 
England with her. And she can"t bear the idea ot a strange 
attendant; so I told her as 1 and Matilda Calverley — that’s 
the young woman as I"ve engaged as assistant — would do all 
we could for her. But she’s a rich ladv, and inclined to be 
capricious; and she don’t like Matilda because of a cast in her 
eye, and the color of her hair, as is red. And 1 shouldn’t a 
bit wonder if she’d be agreeable to jDay your passage over if 
you could suit her, as maid.” 

“ But,” hesitated Dora, shrinking back, with natural 
doubt, “ if she shouldn’t like "" 

“ It won’t cost much to try, anyhow,” said Miss Brydges, 
fastening a cover on her jar of marmalade, and putting it into 
a cupboard. “ You’re good-looking, and you’ve a soft, pleas- 
ant way with you as will be pretty certain to take her fancy. 
Come,” and she rose up with a determined air. 

“ Where?” 

“ To Miss, Joscelyn.” 

And with a failing heart Dora followed the tall stewardess 
out across the luxuriously furnished saloon, with its carpet of 
pale blue moquette, its acres of gilding and sheets of shining 
mirrors, and into one of the most desirable and expensive 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


177 


state-rooms, where an old lady in gray curls and a black satin 
dress sat among a Babel of boxes, trunks, and packages, 
which she was vainly trying to classify by aid of a written list 
in her lap. 

“ Stewardness,'^ said the old lady, “ is that you?’^ 

“ Yes, ma’am, if you please,’^ courtesied Miss Brydges. 
“ I hope you’re getting on comfortably?” 

“I’m not at all,” said the old lad}^ The ice-pitcher is 
upset over my paper parcels, and the sugar is all dissolving, 
and the lemons have rolled under the berth where I can’t 
reach them, not even with the umbrella-hook — and I’ve lost 
my eyeglasses. And that young' person with the cross-eyes 
has such an injurious effect upon my nervous system that 1 
have been obliged to send her out of the room. I think, stew- 
ardess, you’ll have to put my things together, and call a cab, 
and send me back to the Crampton Hotel, until I can get 
some one to replace Marie. I’m afraid I’m not equal to a 
sea voyage without the services of a maid.” 

“ Oh, dear, ma’am, but that would be a pity, with your 
packing-cases and all on board,” said Miss Brydges, rescuing 
,twQ of the refractory lemons, which were rolling about the 
floor, and whisking a pasteboard cap-box out of the meander- 
ing flood of ice- water. “ I’ll send a waiter directly to wipe up 
the floor and carry away the lumps of ice — and, in the mean- 
time, Miss Joscelyn, ma’am, here’s our assistant stewardess 
last voyage — a very reliable young woman, well recommended 
by Doctor Anneslie, of St. llilarius, at Southampton, as wants 
to earn her passage, and would be proud of a chance to be^ 
your maid.” 

Miss Joscelyn stared at Dora in a near-sighted way. 

“ Where are my eyeglasses?” said she. 

“ I think, ma’am, they are sticking in your belt,” said 
Dora, venturing to point at the article in question. 

“ I like that,” said Miss Joscelyn, approvingly, as she fitted 
them across the bridge of her aquiline nose and took a survey 
of the aspirant to office. “ It proves that you are naturally of 
an observant temperament. WTiat is your name, young 
woman?” 

“ Dora Bracy, ma’am.” 

“ How old are you?” 

“ I’m nearly twenty.” 

“ Humph!” commented Mrss Joscelyn. “ Have you ever 
lived as lady’s-maid, Bracy?” 

“ No, madame,” said Dora, timidly; “ but I think I could 
make myself useful to you, if you would allow me to try.” 


178 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ You^re sure she’s quite decent and respectable, steward- 
ess?” said Miss Joscelyn, turning to Miss Brydges, and speak- 
ing in an audible “ aside,” while poor Dora felt the scarlet 
blood mount to the very roots of her hair. 

“ Oh, quite, ma’am! I’ll answer for said the stew- 

ardess. “ Doctor Anneslie, you know — ” 

“ Welb I’ll give you a trial, at any rate, young woman,” 
said Miss Joscelyn.- “ I’ll pay your passage-money, and may 
be add a little present when we reach Southampton, if you 
suit me and do your work well.” 

“ Thank you, madame,” said Dora, with real gratitude in 
her heart. 

” Here’s the list that Marie, the ungrateful creature, made 
out,” said Miss Joscelyn. “Just compare it with the cases 
and things, and see that everything is here, all right and safe. 
I’ve counted and puzzled and searched for my eyeglasses un- 
til my head is all in a whirl.” 

Moving quietly around, Dora soon succeeded in restoring 
the chaos to comparative order, verified the list, and filled 
Miss Joscelyn’s perturbed heart with satisfaction. 

“ I declare,” said the old lady,‘as she lay among her pillows 
with a cut-glass smelling-bottle pressed to her nostrils, “ you’re 
a deal quicker and quieter than Marie.” 

“ Am I?” said Dora, smiling sadly. 

“ Are you seasick on the ocean?” 

“ No, madame.” 

“ That’s another advantage,” said Miss Joscelyn. “ Marie 
was!’^ 

“Indeed!” 

“But,” added the old lady, “ I’m afraid you’re not 
healthy.” 

“ I am, madame, quite so,” assured Dora. 

“You are so pale,” commented the old lady. “ And you’ve 
such a sad face. ” 

“ I have reasons to look sad,” said Dora, folding Miss 
Joscelyn’s myriad of crumpled shawls, and bestowing them 
safely in the little square locker under the window. “ I have 
lost all my friends.” 

“ Dear, dear,” said Miss Joscelyn. “ And you so young. 
But now get the cologne and camphor bottles out, so you can 
lay your hand on them at a minute’s notice, for I feel the 
steamer moving, and I’m always sick the very moment we 
leave harbor! And tell the stewardess to have iced champagne 
ready for me, the moment I call for it— and look after the 
novels and books, Dora, and get a lemon all cut in slices, and 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


179 


tell the waiter to bring me a basin of clear soup the minute 
dinner is served. Oh, dear, dear, these sea voyages! If ever 
I reach English shores again. Til stay there 

“We shall soon be there,^^ said Dora, encouragingly. 

“ Oh, my poor headT’ groaned Miss Joscelyn. “ Take off 
the cap, Dora, and unpin the little puffs, and unfasten the 
switch. I hnoio ITn going to be very ill this passage. And 
inquire if there are any decent peaches on board, Dora — I need 
something to moisten my lips — and tell the stewardess to bring 
me a cup of iced tea at once.^^ 

“ Well,^’ said Miss Brydges, when Dora came to deliver the 
multitudinous messages, “how is she getting on?"^ 

“ She isnT seasick,^^ said Dora, with a smile, “ but she 
thinks she is. 

“ She will be,’^ nodded the stewardess, “ if stuffing herself 
with a lot of different things can do it. It^s always so. She 
has crossed five times, and she never learns wisdom from ex- 
perience, However, Dll have the champagne ready, and 
here^s the iced tea, and Gabriel will bring you some peaches 
and bananas. 

And before night Miss Joscelyn was declaring, in the agonies 
of seasickness, that she wished herself dead. 

It was a brief experience, however. The weather was de- 
lightfully clear and calm, the ocean smooth as glass, and at 
the end of three days Miss Joscelyn crept on deck leaning on 
her new maid^s arm, and suffered herself to be established in 
a reclining-chair, with pillows, rugs, and shawls disposed 
comfortably around her. 

“ Dora Bracy,^’ said Miss Joscelyn, “ yoiTve been very kind 
and attentive through this sickness of mine.^^ 

“ Thank you, madame,^^ said Dora, simply. 

“ And it^s very considerate of you not to be seasick your- 
self,^ ^ added the old lady. 

Dora smiled. 

“ I can hardly claim any credit on tliat score, said she. 

“ No, to be sure; but kill it^s all in my favor,^' said Miss 
Joscelyn; “ and if I hadn’t written to my friend. Lady Os- 
prey, to engage her own maid’s sister for me, to meet me at 
Southampton, I should be almost tempted to retain you in my 
services.” 

Dora looked wistfully at the old lady, but said nothing. It 
had come across her sometimes, like a brooding shadow, when 
she was busy in her ceaseless ministrations — what was to be- 
come of her when once more they set foot upon English soil? 
She was ashamed to annoy her good friends at the hospital 


180 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


with any further calls upon their kindness— and she knew not 
whither to turn. 

“ I should be very glad, of a good place/^ said she, in a low 
voice. 

“ Should you?^^ said Miss Joscelyn, kindly. “ AVell, I think 
I know of one.’’’ 

Dora looked up with kindling eyes and rising color. 

“ Oh, madanie,^^ said she, “ if you could recommend me 
anywhere, 1 should be so grateful.’’ 

“ You read well,” said Miss Joscelyn. “ I’ve noticed that 
when you’ve been reading me to sleep of an afternoon. And 
you are quiet and handy. Your dress is an objection.” 

Dora looked down with a blush at her faded alpaca suit. 

“ Yes, I know,” acknowledged she; “ but — but 1 am very 
poor, Miss Joscelyn. 1 have no money to purchase an out- 
fit.” 

“ Don’t mind that, my dear,” said Miss Joscelyn, kindly; 

“ 1 only mentioned it because I know my friend Lady Osprey 
is a little fastidious in the matter of outward appearances. I’ve 
an old black silk dress somewhere among my things that you 
can have. I don’t doubt that you can manage to alter it over to 
fit you very nicely, and I don’t mind giving you a pound note 
when we reach Southampton; to help you to reach my friend’s 
place near Monmouth.” 

“Monmouth!” echoed Dora, looking up with sparkling' 
eyes and color that was brighter than ever. “ Did you say 
MonmouiliV^ 

“ Yes,” said Miss Joscelyn, in some surprise. “ Do you 
like Monmouth?” 

“I — 1 think it is beautiful there,” cried Dora, radiantly. 

“ I was near Monmouth once. Oh, I should like that neigh- 
borhood so much. ” 

“Lady Osprey has a very fine place there,” 'said Miss 
Joscelyn. “ Deader and companion to her and her niece, that 
is the situation you will be called upon to fill. They don’t 
pretend to pay very high wages, but it is a very genteel posi- 
tion, and there are plenty of young women who would be glad 
to get it. They have employed a very worthy young person in 
that capacity for five years, but she has lately married a mis- 
sionary and gone to China to live, and as Lady Osprey is rather 
difficult to please — ” 

“ Oh!” cried out Dora, with quickened pulses and eyes all 
aglow, “ do you think I could be so fortunate as to suit her?” 

“ I don’t know why not,” said Miss Joscelyn, good-natured- 
ly. “ One thing is quite certain, my recommendation would 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


181 


have weight with her, and it shall not be lacking. And now , 
child, get that novel and read to me a little. I feel as if my 
nerves needed quieting. When you've been through all the 
trouble that I have, Dora, you will have nerves, too!^^ 

Dora smiled sadly to herself as she toiled down into the 
state-room to get the book in which Miss Joscelyn was just 
then interested, and wondered to herself what Miss Joscelyn 
could know of real griefs and tribiilations — the good old lady 
whose greatest trial was the sickness of a pet poodle, or the 
misfit of a collar. 

“ At twenty years old,^^ thought poor Dora, “ I have lived 
a longer life than she has at sixty 

But while her lips pronounced mechanically the printed 
words ot the page, and Miss Joscelyn dozed behind her black 
satin fan, Dora’s brain was busy with the future. A place in 
Monmouth; a situation where she could be near Branchley- 
upon-Usk! Where, perhaps, she could sometimes see, or hear 
of, the old manor house itself, where her lost husband dwelt, 
and where little Nell played under the shadows of the giant 
beeches and spreading limes, forgetting the while that she 
ever had such a thing as a mother! Where, like' a forgotten 
ghost, she could hover around the outskirts of the earthly 
paradise that held her precious ones, and hear their laughter 
as the echoes of happy spirit-voices may sometimes float across 
the gulf that divides this world and the next! And Dora’s 
heart stood still as she thought of all this. Oh! she pondered, 
was there ever such a fortuitous combination of circumstances 
as this? If only she could succeed in pleasing this unknown 
and critical Lady Osprey! 

And then she remembered little Walter, and the tears 
choked her utterance; she could read no further. 

“ My child, my child!” she murmured to herself, clasping 
both hands over her eyes. 

Fortunately Miss Joscelyn had fallen fast asleep with her 
mouth wide open, and her head tilted back at an angle of 
forty-five degrees. And when at last she roused herself by a 
snore a degree louder than its predecessors, Theodora was 
leaning over the guards opposite, with grave, intent eyes fixed 
upon the rush of the foaming billows. 

“ I do believe I’ve been dozing for a minute or two,” said 
Miss Joscelyn. “But go on, Dora, go on; I’ve never once 
lost the thread of the story!” 


182 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A NEW HOME„ 

It was a bright autumn afternoon when our heroine found 
herself standing on the platform in the little town of Mon- 
mouth, whose picturesque spires were darkly outlined against 
the dark wreaths of smoke that rose up from the monster iron- 
works at the left. A lovely place, instinct with life and 
vitality, and surrounded with sylvan scenery — a place for Old 
England to be proud of! 

“ My Lady Osprey^s?^^ said the station-master. “Of The 
Chestnuts? Oh, yes, ma’am, our people know the place very 
well. Let me see — is this all the luggage you have?” glanc- 
ing down at the one modest box with which Dora had pro- 
vided herself at Southampton. 

“ That is all,” confessed Dora, a little ashamed at the 
scantiness of her own surroundings. 

“ Shall 1 call a fly for you?” asked the station-master, who 
was always especially polite to Lady Osprey’s' guests. 

“Is it too far to walk?” questioned Dora, nervously play- 
ing with the steel rings of her purse. 

“ Five miles, and a trifle over,” said the man. “ And not 
the best road in the country, neither. Oh, no, ma’am, 1 don’t 
think you could walk it!” with a deprecatory glance at Dora’s 
pale face and fragile, drooping figure. 

“Please call the fly, then,” said -Dora, quietly — and the 
station-master, who owned a one third interest in the livery 
establishment, made haste to fulfill her behests before she 
should alter her mind on the subject. 

“ Is Branchley-upon-Usk near here?” she asked, with as 
much carelessness as she could assume, when he returned once 
more. 

“Fifteen miles,” said the station-master. “That is, fif- 
teen miles from The Chestnuts. It’s a matter of three miles 
or so nearer here, in a direct line. The manor house is nearer 
still. Ever visited Brauchley Manor House, ma’am?” 

“ ISTo,” said Dora, faintly. “I am a stranger in this part 
of the country.” 

“ It’s well worth a visit, ma’am, I can assure you,” said 
the man. “ One of the oldest places in the neighborhood. 
They say it was once a Benedictine monastery — the old chapel 
is still in existence.” 

“ Is it.^*” 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


183 


“ I could give you a card to the housekeeper, ma’am, if you 
cared to see the place,” added the man. “ She is an old friend 
of mine, and would, I am sure, take great pleasure in showing 
it on any Friday you choose to call, between the hours of 
twelve and three.” 

“Thanks,” said Dora; “but it is not likely that I shall 
have the opportunity of seeing the manor house. Is this my 
conveyance? Then 1 will start at once.” 

The Chestnuts was a rambling old red-brick house, too 
small for a mansion, too large for a farm-house, which seemed 
hid away among great masses of trees — a picturesque pile, with 
antique chimney-pots, oriel windows projecting from every 
nook and corner, and a pretty little glass-roofed conservatory 
at the south end, through whose crystal sides the tropical 
foliage of palms and bananas, and wreathing passion-flowers 
was distinctly visible. The lawn, closely cut and smooth as a 
sheet of green plush, was broken by no intrusive flower-beds; 
the drive, shaded by giant chestnut-trees, wound up from the 
carriage gates, and Theodora presently found herself standing 
trembling on the bowery veranda, where late banksia roses 
hung in fragrant clusters, and ivy and clematis mantled the 
walls with a rank embroidery of green. A maid, in a smart 
cap, trimmed with a profusion of blue ribbon bows, came to 
the door. 

“ Is Lady Osprey at home?” Dora asked. 

The maid glanced in some surprise at the waiting fly, and 
the box, and the slight figure standing all alone on the ve- 
randa. 

“Yes, ma’am, she’s at home,” said she, dubiously; 
“ but—” 

“ Here is your fare,” said Dora to the man; and then turn- 
ing to the maid, she added, with dignity: “ I will come in, if 
you please, and sit down, while you give this note from Miss 
Joscelyn to your mistress.” 

“ Then she is a lady,’.’ thought Mary, taking the note with 
a low courtesy. “ 1. almost thought as she was one o’ them 
genteel confidence women as comes around with photographs 
and point lace, and cashmere shawls to sell, and cuts away 
with the parlor ornaments while you goes up to the lady. 
Please to walk into the drawing-room, ma’am,” she added, 
aloud, “ and I’ll take the letter up to my lady immediate.” 

And Dora found herself in a long, low room, redolent of 
dried rose-leaves and. the scent of mignonette and sweet peas 
in tiny cut-glass holders. Deep crimson curtains draped the 
windows; the carpet was of some velvet-soft material in dim. 


184 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


Persian colors, and great Bagdad rugs lay in front of a cheer- 
ful grate fire. A gilded easel, containing one of Turner^s 
stormy sunset skies, stood in the deep bay-window, where the 
level afternoon sunshine struck it as with an Ithuriel spear of 
gold, waking the tints into marvelous life and intensity; and 
the pale-gray walls were hung with water-colored sketches and 
panel pictures of fiowers. Old china, in every possible form 
and device, loaded the velvet-covered mantel; chairs and sofas 
of deep-red satin stood around as if the room had been but 
recently occupied, and a pair of garden gloves lay beside a 
bunch of newly gathered ferns on a small table of Mexican 
onyx, garlanded with swinging silver chains, near the door. 
There was no barbaric splendor of upholstery here, no striv- 
ing after effect; but all looked cozy, refined, and home-like. 

Dora was standing by the fire, looking at the glowing crim- 
son of the Turner sunset, and wondering how people could 
possibly inspire amiece of dull, dead canvas with such life and 
brilliance, when an opposite door opened softly, and a tall old 
lady, with silver-white hair, and eyes that glowed like black 
diamonds, came in— an old lady dressed in black velvet, with 
a great star of diamonds glistening on her breast, and a 
coiffure of costly black lace floating away from her head as 
she walked. 

“ I am Lady Osprey,"^ said she, with the imperial air of an 
ancient princess. “ And you — 

“ I am Mrs. Bracy, madame, at your service, said Dora, 
deeply impressed with the mien and bearing of this beautiful 
old vision. 

“ Mrs. Bracy Lady Osprey referred to the open letter 
ill her hand. “ My friend^s note says simply Dora Bracy. 
Are you a widow?^^ 

Dora colored deeply. 

“lam not a widow, madame,’^ said she, “ but— 

“ Your husband has left you?’’ 

Dora inclined her head. ““ But it is all the same as if 1 
were a widow,” said she, with simple pathos. “ I have my 
own living to earn, and Miss Jocelyn was kind enough to sug- 
gest that — ” 

“ I see,” said Lady Osprey, whose keen jet-black eyes had 
been studying Dora’s face while she spoke. “ It is the old 
story over again, 1 suppose— man’s neglect and woman’s de- 
spair. 1 can not say that 1 care to hear the particulars. You 
are very young?” 

“ 1 am nineteen, madame.” 

“ Tell hie what you can do?” said Lady Osprey. 


LOYE at SARATOGA. 


185 


Dora hesitated in painful embarrassment at this very lead- 
ing question. 

“ Indeed, madame/" said she, “ I can do very little. I am 
not what the world cajls accomplished; but 1 can read tolera- 
bly well, and 1 am quick with the needle, and I am most anx- 
ious to please. 

“Good!’ '’ said Lady Osprey, thoughtfully, nodding her 
head. “ I like that better than the qily protestations of these 
old maids who would fain make you believe that they know 
evrerythiug. Well, Mrs. Bracy, or Dora, I would rather call 
you—” 

“ If you please, madame,’^ said the girl, meekly. 

“ Upon my friend Miss Joscelyn’s representations I will try 
you for a little while. If you suit me, well and good; if not, 
there is no harm done. My niece’s opinion is of more conse- 
quence than my own; but I presume, if you do your best, she 
will endeavor to be satisfied. Here she comes now!” with a 
sudden turn of the silver white head, and a brightening of the 
whole face. 

A swift, light footstep came with a sort of elastic swing 
along the softly carpeted hall— the door was opened, and a 
tall, slight figure came in, with both hands full of glowing au- 
tumn leaves. A brilliant dark-eyed girl, with a profusion of 
silky black hair floating down over her shoulders, and cheeks 
all rose-red with her walk in the crisp October wind. And 
Dora Brauchley recoiled with a sudden start and a paling brow, 
as she recognized the dusk Oriental beauty of — Lady Augusta 
Trente! 

“ My dear,” said Lady Osprey, “this is a young woman 
recommended to us by my friend, Helena Joscelyn, as a reader 
and companion, in Caroline Carter’s place. And 1 think, if 
you do not object, 1 will try her.” 

“ Object!” echoed Lady Augusta, with a laugh. “ Why 
on earth should 1 object. Aunt Aurora.^ I dare say she will 
do very well, 'and — dear me, how very white she is! Jones,” 
ringing the bell violently, “ bring a glass of wine or some- 
thing; the poor girl is quite done up with her journey!” 

But Theodora had recovered herself with an effort. 

“ Pardon me,” said she, “but it is not necessary. I am 
quite well now. It was merely the fatigue of the railway jour- 
ney and the heat of the room. ” 

“ Bring the wine, Jones,” said Lady Augusta. “ It will do 
you good. Miss — ” 

“Mrs. Bracy,” said Lady Osprey. “Dora, we shall call 
her.” 


186 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


And as Dora drank the wine whioh was presently brought 
her on a small tray of the finest chased silver, Lady Augusta 
stood regarding her with calm curiosity, as if she were a pack- 
age of dry-goods which had just been sent home on approval. 

“ She has a most beautiful face,^^ said she, in'an audible 
aside to Lady Osprey. “And a low, soft voice. Caroline 
Carter’s voice was like the scraping of a tuneless violin. And 
Miss Mygatt spoke through her nose. Where did Miss Josce- 
lyn pick her up?” 

“ On board the American steamer, I believe,” answered the 
elder lady. “ And 1 am disposed to think 1 shall try her.” 

“ By all means,” nodded Lady Augusta. “ And — dear me, 
what a screaming! It is Bosa in trouble again.” 

The words were still on her lips, when the door flew open 
with a bang that knocked over a slender vase of carnations, 
and set the crystal pendants to the old silver chandeliers to 
jingling wildly, and a girl of twelve or thirteen, in a short 
Holland linen dress, thick boots, and ink-black hair flying 
behind, like the mane of a Shetland pony, rushed in, and 
ensconced herself behind Lady Osprey’s black velvet skirts. 
She was followed by a prim, middle-aged person in spectacles 
and a dyed brown silk dress, and both were in a highly excited 
state. 

“ Rosamond,” said Lady Osprey, gravely, “ what does this 
mean? Miss Goodall, may I ask the reason of this very ex- 
traordinary scene?” 

“ I beg your pardon. Lady Osprey,” said Miss Goodall, 
catching her breath in short pants; “ but I have caught Lady 
Rosamond in the stable-yard again.” 

“ It’s a lie!” said Lady Rosamond Trente, with a grimace. 
“ You didn’t!” And having uttered this defiance, she shrunk 
back behind Lady Osprey’s black velvet drapery. 

“ Or, at least,” corrected Miss Goodall, “ she was just com- 
ing out. I think the gate had just closed behind her. And 
if you will kindly look atTier dress or her boots. Lady Osprey, 
1 think you will perceive that she has been riding the bare- 
backed pony again! when 1 supposed her doing her French 
verbs in the school-room. Lady Osprey. And when 1 vent- 
ured to remonstrate upon this very extra-ordi-nary conduct, 
she called me a meddling old pussy-cat, and threw the ‘ An- 
cient Atlas’ at me!” - 

“ Rosamond!” said Lady Osprey, gravely, “ what does this 
mean?” 

The dark-cheeked young rebel peeped sulkily around her 
aunt’s dress. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


187 


“ It^s all true/^ said she; “she is a meddlmg old pussy- 
cat; and the school-room was so awfully hot and stuffy, and 
the pony is so jolly; and Henrico has taught me to ride with- 
out a bit or a bridle!^'’ 

“ Lady Osprey,'’^ panted the excited governess, “ is this to 
be tolerated?"^ 

“ Rosamond,"’ said the old lady, solemnly, “ you must ask 
Miss Goodall’s pardon.” 

“ I won’t,” said Lady Rosamond. “I hate her— and I 
won’t ask her pardon!” 

“ Aunt Aurora,” said Lady Augusta, interfering in great 
indignation, “ you really must put a stop to this barbarism. 
Rosamond is getting beyond everything!” 

Lady Rosamond made a fearful grimace at her elder sister. 

“ Mind your own business, miss,” said she. “ I wish you’d 
get married abd clear out of here. I and Aunt Aurora always 
get along well enough without you.” 

“ iTosamond,” reiterated the old lady, “ I tell you you must 
ask Miss Goodall’s pardon.” 

“ And 1 tell you 1 won’t,” said Lady Rosamond, who had 
now scrambled up on the window-sill like a cat; “ I’ve quar- 
reled with Miss Goodall — and I’ve meant to, this long time. 
Ask her pardon, indeed! Let her ask mine!” 

“ Aunt Aurora,” said Lady Augusta, “ why do you endure 
this insolence from such a child? Why don’t you send her to 
her own room?” 

“ My dear,” said Lady Osprey, despairingly, “ she wouldn’t 
go.” 

“Of course 1 wouldn’t,” said Lady Rosamond, swinging 
her big boots to and fro, for she was just at the awkward age 
when the hands and feet are preternaturally developed; when 
the graces of childhood are gone, and the winning attractions 
of maidenhood have not yet taken their place. And yet she 
was pretty in her wild gypsy way, with great black eyes, an 
olive-dark complexion, and luxuriant black locks veiling her 
face like a mist. 

“ Now she’s eating peanuts,” groaned Lady Augusta, “ and 
throwing the, shells out of the window.” 

“ Peanuts are good,” said Lady Rosamond. “ Henrico gave 
’em to me.” 

“ That is the new groom. Aunt Aurora,” said Lady 
Augusta. “ Pretty lessons she is learning from him /” 

“ Let him alone,” said Lady Rosamond, aiming a nutshell 
with perilous accuracy of aim at her sister’s face. “ He’s a 


188 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


deal better looking than the spindle-shanked fellow thatyou^re 
going to marry.'’’ 

“ Eosamond, be silent/’ said Lady Osprey, roused at last 
into something like decision. “ Miss’ Goodall, if you will re- 
turn to tlie school-room, I will send my niece there presently. 
If she will not beg your pardon, I must do it for her.” 

“ Oh, Lady Osprey,” apologized the governess, “ I never 
meant — ” 

But Lady Osprey’s white, jeweled hand motioned courte- 
ously to the door, and Miss Goodall was compelled to obey. 

“ Eosamond,” said the old lady, when the door had closed 
upon the still trembling and indignant form of the governess, 
“ you are a very naughty girl.” 

“ Who’s that?” said Lady Eosamond, pointing with one 
brown finger to the slight, motionless figure of Dora Bracy in 
the window. 

“ It is no matter who she is.” 

“ But I want to know,” persisted Lady Eosamond. “ Who 
is it. Aunt Aurora?” 

‘‘It is Dora, my new companion.” ' 

“ I like her looks,” said Lady Eosamond, still swinging her 
boots. “ She is pretty, and she’s got a dimple in her chin. 
Come here, Dora, and let me look at you closer.” 

Dora obeyed, blushing up to the very roots of her hair. 

“Ah!” said Lady Eosamond, patting her cheek. “If 
you’d get me a governess like iMs, Aunt Aurora, I’d learn. 
Come, won’t you take Miss Goodall for a reader, and let me 
have Dora?” 

“Eosamond,” groaned Lady Osprey, “this is really be- 
yond endurance. Augusta, will you ring the bell for Jones? 
Jones,” to the maid, “ take Mrs. Bracy up to the little red 
room in the south wing, and see that her things are carried 
there. I will see you again presently, Dora.” 

And as Dora followed the woman upstairs, she could hear 
the voices of Lady Osprey and her elder niece mingled in 
spirited discussion; while above them both rose the shrill de- 
cided accents of the refractory young rebel, crying out: 

“ I won’t beg her pardon! ^’o, I won’t, not if 3^011 flay me 
alive!” 

Jones pursed, up her lips. 

“ It’s one of Lady Eosamond’s rampageous days,” said she. 
“ She is a dreadful trial, is Lady Eosamond— and yet my lady 
is fond of her, too. This is the room, Mrs. Bracy,” opening 
the door of a neat, low-ceiled apartment, hung with crimson 
cretonne, and furnished after a substantial old-fashioned style. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


189 


with solid dark mahogany, claw- legged tables, and a bedstead 
hung with red cretonne curtains. “ Maria will bring you up 
a cup of tea presently, and you’ll please to ring if you want 
anything else.” 

And the next minute Dora was alone. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A SITUATION AS GOVERNESS. 

She sat down in a low chair by the window, mechanically 
unfastening the strings of her hat, while she looked out across 
the rustling tree-tops and velvet lawns, to a glimpse of blue 
water in the distance, and pondered on the strange future 
which seemed to be unrolling itself before her. 

“ Only fifteen miles from Branchley,” she murmured to 
herself. “Fifteen miles from my child! fifteen miles from 
him I Oh, kind Heaven! I thought I should be happier when 
1 was nearer to them, but the sick longing at my heart only 
grows more intense. If I could see them — if 1 could touch my 
child- s. hand, or her cheek, or her harr! If I could only catch 
a glimpse of them, from afar off! And perhaps 1 may,” with 
a sudden brightening of her eyes, a rising color in her cheeks. 
“ Oh, perhaps I may! For 1 think 1 could live a twelve- 
month on one little look! . Luck has befriended me in bring- 
ing me so close to them — perhaps it may befriend me even 
further still!” 

She had scarcely drunk the cup of tea brought her by the 
blue-ribboned maid, who had opened the door to her, when 
Lady Osprey herself came to the room. 

“ Dora,” said she, seating herself opposite the young 
stranger, “ I have come to make 3^011 a very strange pro- 
posal.” 

Dora looked up in surprise. ' 

“ My niece. Lady Rosamond Trente, has taken a fancy that 
she would like you as a governess,” went on Lady Osprey. 
“ I think, upon the whole, that I will transfer your services 
from myself to her. Rosamond is very capricious and fan- 
tastic in her ideas, and 1 am compelled, to a certain degree, 
to humor them. Her mother — my brother Fauntleroy’s wife 
— was a Spanish lady of high temper and ungoverned will, and 
1 find that whenever I attempt anything like coercion with 
Rosamond, she becomes absolutely savage!” 

“ But, Lady Ospre}",” faltered poor Dora, “ I can not pos- 
sibly accept the position. ” 


190 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Why not?’^ questioned Lady Osprey, knitting her black 
brows until they became one level line, and evincing some dis- 
pleasure. 

“ I could not teach Lady Rosamond Trente,’^ explained the 
girl, coloring deeply. “ 1 am not educated. I have no ac- 
complishments. 

“That signifies nothing,^'’ said Lady Osprey, imperiously. 
“ I can easily engage masters for all that sort of thing. 
What I want of you is to teach my poor child the gentle 
graces of life, the habits of civilization. I do not know what 
your birth may be — it is certainly not patrician.''^ 

“I am an American farmer’s daughter,” said Dora, 
quietly. 

“ But,” went on Lady Osprey, “you haje the soft, gra- 
cious manner of a lady. I think that you would exercise a 
favorable influence on Rosamond, if not as a governess, as a 
companion. At all events, she likes you, and she is as chary 
of her fancies as if they were Koh-i-noor diamonds. Augusta, 
her sister, has no influence whatever over her, and it is only 
at times that 1 can exert my authority. What do you say, 
Dora? AYill you undertake the charge?” 

Dora lifted her calm, brave eyes to Lady Osprey’s aristo- 
cratic old face. 

“ If you wish me to do so, I will try it. Lady Osprey,” said 
she; “ but if I fail — ” 

“ If you fail,” said Lady Osprey, with a shrug of her shoul- 
ders, “ you \nll not be the first failure. 1 have paid Miss 
Goodall, and ‘dismissed her. She is already on her way to the 
railway station at Monmouth. She is a good, honest creature, 
but she has no tact, and, with the best intentions in the world, 
she was ruining Rosamond.” 

As she spoke, the door was pushed softly open, and the 
dark-eyed culprit herself appeared. 

“ Rosamond,” said Lady Osprey, “ when shall I learn ynu 
always to knock at a door before you enter?” 

But Lady Rosamond, without paying any attention to her 
aunt’s chiding words, looked from one to the other of the two 
figures in the window. 

“ Well?” said she, eagerly. 

“Dora thinks she will try you,” said Lady Osprey; “but 
remember — ” 

Lady Rosamond walked up to Dora, and gave her a kiss. 

“Good!” said she. “I think 1 can behave myself—with 
you. At all events, I will try. But, Aunt Aurora, 1 may 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


191 


take her out into the pleasaunce? Lessons don’t begin until 
to-morrow, do they? And the twilight is so lovely out there.” 

Lady Osprey nodded to Dora. “ Go with her,’"’ said she, in 
a low tone. “ Win her to you all that you can.” 

And presently Dora found herself seated in a low, rustic 
summer-house, with a thatched roof and cedar columns, all 
wreathedr about with clematis and honeysuckle, with Lady 
Rosamond T rente sitting on the grass at her side. 

“ Now, tell me truly,” said Lady Rosamond, abruptly, 
“ what you think of us all.” 

“ W*liat I think?” repeats Dora, in some confusion. 

“Yes.” 

“ Lady Osprey is like a queen,” said Dora, timidly. 

“ That’s just my idea/’ declared Lady Rosamond." 

“ And Lady Augusta Trente is very beautifnl.” 

“ Yes,” nodded Lady Rosamond ; “ but you won’t like her. 
She is like a tiger-cat, very beautiful and very treacherous. 
For myself — I hate her!” 

“ Oh, Lady Rosamond— your sister!” 

“ My sister,” admitted the child, with an impatient toss of 
her jet-black mane of hair. “ There is no reason why sisters 
shouldn’t dislike each other heartily. She never cared for me 
— and 1 hate her. But she is to be marrieddu a month.” 

“ Married!” 

“ And she will go to live at Branchley Manor. They like 
her there — Lady Branchley is always sending for her — and I 
am sure they’re welcome to her. 

“ Married to — Sir Basil Branchley?” uttered Dora, faintly. 

“ Bless your heart, no,” said Lady Rosamond. “ Sir Basil 
is married already, only his wife never shows.” 

“ Never shows f” 

“ She has run away from him,” said Lady Rosamond, in- 
differently, “ or she is shut up in a lunatic asylum, or some- 
thing. At all events, they never speak of her. By the way, 
she was an American,” opening her big black eyes very wide. 
“ Did you ever meet her there, Dora?” 

“ Why not? I don’t suppose America is such a very big 
place — at least the habitable parts of it. They say she was a 
very great beauty, this Lady Branchley, but a very wicked 
woman.” 

“ Was she?” Dora sat there quite pale and rigid, with the 
blood tingling in every vein, and her heart seeming to rise into 
her very throat. 


192 


LOVE AT SARATOG'A. 

“She broke Sir Basil's heart/' nodded Lady Rosamond. 

“ She ran away and left him— and she left her child;, too.'' 

Lora was silent. She coaid not have spoken for the blind- 
ness that came before her eyes, the chill at her heart. ^ 

“ He went back to America for it," said Lady Rosamond. ' 

“ And where do you think she had sent it? To the poor- 
house! Oh, such a little beauty of a child! I've seen it at 
the manor-house. And I'm going again, to stay a ioonth, 
when Augusta is married to Mr. J Lilian Branchley. " 

“ Are you?" Dora spoke low and hoarsely. 

“ It's a beautiful old place," said Lady Rosamond, sitting 
with her elbows on her knees. “ With the grounds sloping 
down to the Usk River, and a little boat that I can row my- 
self, and the jolliest, ghostly old chapel that you ever saw. 

The butler says that there's the ghost of an old monk sits 
there of moonlight nights and tells his beads; but 1 know bet- 
ter. I sat up there all one night, and there wasn't a sign of 
a ghost. Wasn't Augusta frightened, though, when Priscilla,- 
the maid, went upstairs to do my hair, and I v/asn't in the 
bed. There I was, curled up in one of the old Gothic seats of 
the chapel, fast asleep! But there — I've talked enough about 
myself and Augusta; now let's hear about you." 

Dora tried to smile. “ There is nothing to tell," said she. 

“ But there is,” said Lady Rosamond, impatiently. “ How 
old are you?" 

“Nineteen." 

“Nineteen!" echoed Lady Rosamond. “And married 
already. " 

“ Married," said Dora, quietly, “ and widowed." 

Lady Rosamond looked with some awe at the sweet, pale 
young face. 

“Dora," said she, “did you love your husband very 
much?" 

Dora sprung to her feet, clasping her hands over her heart. 

“ Love him!" she cried. “ God knows I did. Oh, I loved 
him so dearly! Lady Rosamond," turning with passion -glit- 
tering eyes to the girl, “ you must not ask me about these 
things; I can not endure it. Do you hear?" 

“ I hear," said Lady Rosamond, solemenly. “ All girls do 
not love their husbands so, though. Augusta does not love 
Julian Branchley— she is only going to marry him because he 
is rich, and will make her the lady of Branchley some day." - 

Dora turned sharply upon her young companion. “ It is \ 
only Sir Basil's wife who can be the lady of Branchley. " | 

“ Sir Basil will not live long," said Lady Rosamond, shrewd- j 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


193 


ly. “ At least, that is what people say. And he has no son 
to inherit his tifcle.-^’ 

“ He has a son!^' cried out Dora. “ Who dares to say that 
he has not?"^ 

“ No/^ said Lady Eosamond, shaking her head; “ there was 
a son — but he is dead. Sir BasiFs wife knows where he is 
buried, but no one else does. There is only little Helen now. 
So of course, when Sir Basil dies, his brother will be Sir Julian 
and Augusta will be the lady of Branchley. She will like 
that,’^ added the child; “ for Augusta delights in fine dresses, 
and carriages, and diamonds; and we are poor, Augusta and 
1. Aunt Aurora gives us a home, but we have no money. 
When I am a woman grown, I mean to publish a novel or 
write a grand poem, or carve out a statue, or something, and 
make a great fortune for myself. I have heard of women do- 
ing so — and 1 have read about them in books. But Augusta 
is different. She thinks girls ought to get married. She is 
always telling me that if I do this thing, and that thing, and 
the other thing, I shall never get a husband. As if I cared 
whether I did or not. If 1 really should fall in love — oh, that 
would be another thing. And I donT think Augusta loves 
Julian Branchley!’^ 

“ You are only a child,^’ said Dora, still with the same 
sharp pain at her heart. “ What do you know about such 
things?’^ 

“ 1 have eyes, though,^’ said Lady Eosamond. “ Ay, and 
ears, and common sense. J am in my teens, too; I was thir- 
teen in April; and 1 havenT played with dolls for a whole 
year. I know who Augusta does love,^^ she added, lowering 
her voice. 

“ Who is it?’’ For the life of her, Dora could not help 
asking the question, although she dreaded, with a sort of sick 
terror, to hear the answer. 

“ Sir Basil!” 

“ Child, you are mistaken,” cried Dora, seizing the girl’s 
arm. ‘ ‘ Sir Basil Branchley is a married man. 

“ But he wasn’t, though, when Augusta first fell in love 
with him,” said Eosamond, gravely. “ She used to talk to 
Aunt Aurora about him, and cry — when they both thought I 
was sound asleep in bed. But 1 wasn’t; 1 was listening at the 
door. Oh!” added Lady Eosamond Trente, with a keen ap- 
preciation of the ridiculous, “ it was such fun. If ever I am 
in love — and mind you, Dora, I never mean to be, if I can 
help it — I won’t make such a fool of myself as Augusta did. 
But, Dora — about yourself. Did you ever have any children?” 


194 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


“ Yes/^ Dora answered, almost inaudibly. 

“ What has become of them?^^ 

But Dora turned her face away with a low, anguished cry. 

“ Then they are dead,^' said Lady Rosamond, in a low, 
awe-stricken voice. “ Poor little Dora;^^ and she stroked the 
short curling rings of Dorans golden hair, which was just be- 
ginning to grow out into a manageable length. “ Why, you 
are only a child yourself! Why did they cut your hair off.^ 
Were you ill?'^ 

“ 1 had a fever, said Dora. 

“ You are shuddering. Are you cold? Then we will go 
back to the school-room; there is always such a cheerful wood 
fire in the school-room at this time of night. And weTl ring 
for tea and lights, added Lady Rosamond, in a caressing sort 
of way, as if Dora were several years younger than herself, 
“ and weTl look over all the books that we are to read to- 
gether. So 1 know we shall be happy, Dora, you and 1.^^ 

“ You are very good to me. Lady Rosamond,^’ said Dora, 
looking wistfully up into the child^s great, pitying eyes. 

“ I like you, you see, said Lady Rosamond Trente; “ you 
are young, and pretty, and soft — not cold and granite hard 
like old Goodall. I think — yes, I'm almost sure — that I like 
you better than 1 do the pony and Henrico. " 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

LADY AUGUSTA'S CONFIDENCES. 

Old Lady Osprey was surprised and delighted at the docility 
with which little Lady Rosamond settled down under the rule 
of her new governess. There was one or two outbreaks, at 
the bottom of which were Henrico and the pony — but, upon 
the whole. Lady Rosamond was improved. Dora's gentleness 
seemed to impress her, and Dora's companionship won her 
away from the masculine pursuits which had so shocked and 
scandalized her elder sister. 

“ 1 think, Dora," said the old lady one day, “ that Rosa- 
mond. would apply herself with more energy to her music and 
French and general literature lessons if you would bring your- 
self down to her level, intellectually speaking, and take lessons 
with her. It might be a little monotonous, iust at first, 
but—" 

“Oh, Lady Osprey," cried Dora, “I should be so de- 
lighted!" 

For there was the yearning sensation at her heart that if she 
could acquire some of these much-coveted accomplishments. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


195 


and make herself even like the soft-voiced, richly cultured En- 
glish women who surrounded her, she would be more worthy of 
her lost husband, ay, even though she should never see him 
more! And so she devoted herself with feverish earnestness 
to the daily lessons— and Lady Rosamond Trente, catching the 
magnetic influence, improved to a degree that fairly amazed 
her aunt. 

“ I believe our little Rosa is going to be a genius after all,^^ 
said Lady Osprey. 

The very fact of her being so near Branchley Manor House 
thrilled Dora’s whole being with electric power. 

“ I wonder if he knows it?’^ she asked herself. “ I wonder 
if no secret instinct tells him that the poor forsaken girl whom 
he once loved so dearly is near him? He used to tell me that 
he could feel my presence, even if he did not see it; he said 
once, that my footstep walking over his grave would stir him 
into life, even though he lay coffined and shrouded. I used 
to laugh at him then, and think he was absurdly romantic and 
high-strung. Alas! how differently things seem to me now. 
Well, his words have come true: my worn and weary footsteps 
are walking over his grave — the grave of his dead love — but it 
returns no answering thrill. Ah, how he loved me! And I 
— what would I not gite for one of those tender looks, one of 
those passionate caresses, which only wearied me then?’^ 

Of her children she never allowed herself to think; she felt 
that all such memories must be resolutely banished, if she 
wished to keep herself from going mad. But the very sight 
of a little fair-haired child, playing on the way-side, brought 
the quick tears to her eyes; the sound of a baby’s voice put 
her into a tremble — and she would walk half a mile around by 
the western gate to avoid passing by the little red-brick lodge 
where the keeper’s wife was wont to stand in the door-way 
with a dimpled little one in her arms. Lady Rosamond 
^’rente, who was quick to observe, said once: 

“ 1 thought you were fond of children, Dora.” 

“ So I am,” said Dora, sadly. 

“ Then why do you always avoid the little ones we meet in 
our walks?” 

“Because — oh. Lady Rosamond! — because the sight of a 
child brings back the memory of my own little lost ones,” 
wailed Dora, with a shower of tears. 

Lady Rosamond kissed her, and said nothing; but after 
that she was especially careful to select the walks where they 
were least likely to meet little children. 

From Lady Augusta she sedulously held herself aloof — but 


196 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


through some unaccountable caprice, the bride-elect seemed 
to take as sudden a fancy to the pale-faced little governess as 
had her impetuous younger sister, sent for her in grave con- 
sultation to the sewing-room, and even asked her advice about 
matters connected with the all-important bridal trousseau. 

“ I should so like to have you see Branchley Manor House,^’ 
said Lady Augusta, with an air of benign patronage. “ It is 
a grand old place — altogether the finest in the neighborhood. 
No — donH go away. You are not disturbing me the least bit 
in the world; and Eosa is quite absorbed in that book of hers. 
I declare, Mrs. Bracy, you are making quite a civilized creat- 
ure of our little gypsy princess. But about Branchley — of 
course 1 shall have Aunt Aurora and Eosamond there a greac 
deal, when I am married, and — equally, of course — you will 
come with them.^^ 

“ 1 — 1 would prefer to remain here,^^ stammered poor Dora, 
feeling a cold chill creep over her; “ 1 am not used to grand 
company, and — 

“ That is all nonsense,^’ said Lady Augusta; “ no one will 
take any notice of you, you are only Lady Eosamond Trente^s 
governess, you know.^^ 

“ Only a governess !’' vaguely echoed Dora. 

“ And I should like you to see deaV Lady Branchley, and 
Julian, and little Helen. Of course, you know I’m going to 
be a sort of step-mother. ” 

“ A step-mother?” 

“ Well — a step-aunt; it’s the same sort of thing!” laughed 
Lady Augusta, who was looking very lovely in a maize-colored 
cashmere, trimmed with swan’s-down, and buttoned down the 
front with tiny knobs of amber; “ for, of course, I shall en- 
deavor to take the place of mother to poor, dear Basil’s moth- 
erless child.” 

Dora sat with her large, wistful eyes fixed on Lady Augusta’s 
face— eyes as wild and pitiful as those of some hunted fawn 
who is transfixed by the cruel arrow of the hunter, and can 
neither turn nor fly. 

“ It’s a sad story,” added Lady Augusta, “ and of course 
it’s one that we don’t talk of to everybody. But you seem 
almost like one of ourselves,” kindly touc^iing Dora’s shoulder 
with her amber satin fan, “ and you must know it all, sooner 
or later. I suppose Eosa has told you of — of Sir Basil’s wife? 
Eosa is such a little chatter-box!” 

Dora inclined her head; she dared not look up, but she 
could feel the crimson blood glowing in her cheek like liquid 
fire. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


197 


“ It was a dreadful family tragedy/' sighed Lady Augusta. 

Poor Basil — no one that sees him now, gloomy, taciturn, 
and absent, can form any idea of what he used to be before 
that unlucky voyage to America — so brilliant — so full of life 
and spirits — so brave and ambitious, but now — oh, he is a ruin 
— a complete wreck! It was all that wretched American mar- 
riage. You see, he met a coarse, uneducated woman there. 
She was a servant at one of the hotels, or something — and in 
a moment of sheer madness he married her. How it was we 
don't know. It may be possible that she worked on his chiv- 
alric feelings — Basil was always a sort of Hon Quixote— or it 
tnay be that she was really pretty, and attracted his fancy. 
But he married her." 

“ And brought her home?" Dora questioned, with a calm 
self-possession which surprised herself. 

“ Home!" sharply echoed Lady Augusta. “ That woman 
— to Branchley Manor House— to his mother? Certainly he 
did not?" 

“No?" 

“ He remained in America more than two years, writing 
various excuses for his long delay — and then when poor Sir 
Eeginald's sudden death summoned him imperatively back, 
he came — without her." 

Dora drew a long shuddering breath. 

“ Of course it was a relief to leave her behind," said Lady 
Augusta. “ The spell was over— the infatuation gone. But, 
all the same, poor Basil's life was wrecked." 

“ And how?" Dora could not prevent herself from exclaim- 
ing, with a bitterness which made Lady Augusta open her eyes 
in amazement. “ Do you suppose there was no shipwreck, 
tlieyi V* 

“ Oh, hers?" Lady Augusta shrugged her shoulders super- 
ciliously. “ It isn't at all likely, you know, that she had any 
very sensitive feelings or delicate susceptibilities. I dare say 
he made her a very liberal allowance, and would be doing so 
still if she had not put it out of his power by running away 
from him. " 

“ Indeed?" 

“ It seems almost incredible, doesn't it? But Sir Basil has 
the dear little girl — a perfect cherub. All that we regret is 
her resemblance to the unfortunate mother." 

“ Unfortunate, indeed!" said Dora, in a low voice. 

“ Ah, your sympathies are aroused," said Lady Augusta. 
“ And it is no wonder. But when you have seen a little more 
of the world, you will be less soft-hearted, Mrs. Bracy." 


198 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“But the child gasped Dora, leaning eagerly forward. 
“Tell me of her I You see,^^ feeling it necessary to offer 
some excuse, as Lady Augusta^s surprised eyes were raised to 
her face, “ I lost a little girl of my own once, and 1 never 
can hear of children without being interested. You say she is 
pretty?^^ 

“ More than pretty,^ ^ said Lady Augusta Trente. “ She is 
as beautiful as an angel — a little golden-haired prattling thing 
that would win any heart. Lady Branchley dotes upon her; 
even Julian, who cares little for children in the abstract, is 
fascinated by her pretty little ways, and worships her, like all 
the rest. Oh, you must see her, Dora. We will all drive over 
to the manor house to-morrow. Aunt Aurora, Bosa, you and 
1. It will be a pleasant surprise for Julian. He returns from 
London to-morrow, where he has been to see about those tire- 
some marriage settlements, and Lady Branchley will be de- 
lighted, I am sure.^^ 

But Dora shrunk back, deathly pale. 

“ I can not!^^ cried she, “ I am not equal to the exertion of 
meeting strangers.^’ 

“ My dear child, what folly all this is!^^ exclaimed Lady 
Augusta Trente, half amazed at what she deemed Dora’s non- 
sense, half gratified at the trepidation with which her account 
of the Branchley splendors had evidently inspired her sister’s 
young governess. “There will be no strangers to meet. 
Lady Branchley is all unassuming gentleness and grace — and 
dear Julian will be sure to receive graciously any friend of 
mine/^ with a little conscious smile. “And Rosa will show 
you the chapel and the old Benedictine ruins, and — ” 

“ You are very kind,” reiterated Dora, with a wild, friglit- 
ened look in her eyes. “ But I prefer not to go.” 

“ Oh, if you are so determined about it,” said Lady Augusta, 
evidently somewhat piqued, “ of course I shall not insist upon 
your going. It is merely a matter of taste.” 

But she questioned Lady Rosamond as to her governess’s 
strange ways when Dora had gone for her usual lonely walk 
under the branching limes at sunset. 

“ Is Mrs. Bracy such a baby that she is actually afraid of 
strangers?” said she. 

“ Afraid P—no,” said Lady Rosamond. 

“ Then why will she not go to Branchley with us to-mor- 
row? I have rather taken up a fancy for her to go, and — ” 

“ And won’t she?” 

“ No; she positively declines.” 

“ But she sliaJl go,” asserted Lady Rosamond, frowning in 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


199 


her solemn Spanish fashion. “ Look here, Augusta, she 7nuU 
see the hobgoblin old chapel, and the wainscoted corridors, 
and dear little Nelly, and that delightful old mother-in-law of 
yours 

“ But you can^t take her against her will.^^ 

“ Can not 1, though? You will see,’^ said Lady Rosamond, 
with a mischievous twinkle in her great eyes. 

And the next day, when Lady Rosamond and her governess 
went out for their afternoon drive, they chanced to overtake 
Lady Augusta near the lodge gate. 

“ Jump in, Augusta!^^ cried out the little hoiden. “ We’re 
only going a little way.” 

And she put her head out to speak a low word or two of 
direction to the coachman on the box. 

The October sunshine was like golden balm — the trees, just 
yellowing in their autumnal beauty, were fresh and lovely still 
—and Dora Bracy, wrapped in her own thoughts, never 
noticed which road the driver had taken, until, sweeping up 
through a magnificent avenue of old trees, she caught sight of 
the deep blue Usk on one side, and on the other became con- 
scious of the stately front of an old cream-tinted house with 
mullioned casements, and a paved court in front, where a mar- 
ble Diana leaned from her glittering marble pedestal, and a 
fountain, surrounded by a belt of glowing scarlet geraniums, 
threw a veil of shining mist into the golden air. 

She started up with a cry. 

“ Where am I?” she exclaimed. “ Surely — surely this is 
Branchley Manor House?” 

“ Of course it is Branchley Manor House,” said Lady Rosa- 
mond, laughing exultantly. “ Augusta’s new home. And 
here is Julian coming out to welcome us — and dear old Lady 
Branchley!” 

Dora sat as pale and still as if she were petrified into mar- 
ble; the cold beads of perspiration broke out upon her fore- 
head, and her heart seemed to beat with low muffled strokes. 
She scarcely moved as the formal words of introduction were 
spoken. Her cold hand scarcely touched that of Julian 
Branchley as he courteously assisted his cousin’s governess to 
alight from the carriage. Like one walking in a dream, she 
crossed .the threshold of Branchley Manor House, vaguely won- 
dering what would happen next. As she saw her own reflec- 
tion in a chance mirror, it seemed to her like that of some 
white, shrinking ghost. 

Lady Rosamond pressed eagerly forward, leaving, as she 


200 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


herself expressed it, Julian and her sister to their “ lover-like 
fooleries.'^ 

“ And little Helen she cried out, impatiently, looking 
around. “ Dear Lady Branchley, where is she?’^ 

“ Yes,^’ said Lady Augusta, languidly, as she took off her 
plumed hat, “ where is my little Nelly?^^ 

While Dora stood by, trembling and leaning against one of 
the great pedestals which supported gilded jardinieres of rare 
exotics. Oh, God! would the sick suspense never end? As 
if it mattered to them where little Helen was, while she, the 
mother, stood breathless and pale, awaiting the presence of 
the child she had not seen for well-nigh a year! . 

Lady Branchley looked surprised. 

“ My dear girls,^^ said she, “is it possible that you do not 
know? Though, of course, it is only half an hour since 1 sent 
Simon off to The Chestnuts with a note, and he could hardly 
have' reached it before you had driven away. Oh, Augusta, I 
am so sorry for your sake and Julianas — but you know how 
moody and fitful he is — and when he once takes a fancy into 
his head, it is utterly useless to try to dispel it! We tried our 
best, indeed — indeed we did, but it was all to no avail. 

Lady Augusta looked at her future mother-in-law with a 
puzzled face. 

“ Do you mean — she began, and then stopped. 

“ He has gone, dear Basil. He has taken Helen and her 
nurse and is en route for Switzerland and Lake Como, 
where — 

But here a frightened cry from the little Lady Eosamond 
attracted all attention. The governess had fainted beside the 
gilded jardinieres. 

“Poor thing said Lady Augusta, carelessly. “But she 
is never very strong. Priscilla will bring some restoratives — 
and as for you, Kosa, stand back and give her a little air. So 
Basil has gone away — and only three weeks before our wed- 
ding? How very, very strangel^^ 

And the crimson flush of gratified pride mounted to Lady 
Augusta Trente^s cheeks as she thought how probable it was 
that Sir Basil could not bring himself to stand calmly by and 
witness her wedding ceremony. 


CHAPTER XXXIIl. 

MOTHER A H D CHILD. 

The wedding of J ulian Branchley and Lady Augusta Trente 
passed off brilliantly, in spite of the momentary gossip caused 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


201 


by Sir Basirs sudden defection. Lady Rosamond, in white 
tulle and snowy syringas, officiated as one of the bride-maids, 
and apparently enjoyed the whole affair intensely. 

“ Of course, I never mean to be married myself, said the 
girl.. “ But it’s rather fun than otherwise to assist at other 
people’s weddings.” 

And when the young married pair came home at Christmas 
from their continental tour, the manor house was filled with 
gay guests and decorated with Christmas greens for their bet- 
ter welcome. 

Lady Osprey and her younger niece were, of course, among 
the invited guests, and with the latter — by Lady Branchley’s 
especial request — came Mrs. Bracy, the governess. 

“ She is a beautiful creature,” said Lady Branchley, confi- 
dentially to Lady Osprey. “ And that gentle, composed man- 
ner of hers is, to me, especially charming. I do not know 
when 1 have seen any one who has more completely captivated 
me.” 

“ She is beautiful,” said Lady Osprey. “ More particularly 
since her lovely golden hair has grown out so luxuriantly and 
her color has come back. But still there is something strange 
about her.” 

“ Yes,” said Lady Branchley, “ I have noticed that. De- 
pend upon it, there" has been a time in her life in which she 
has experienced some terrible nervous shock. She looks at 
you sometimes with a wild, startled glance which is quite un- 
accountable on any other grounds. Do you know her his- 
tory?” 

“ Only that she has undergone much trouble,” said Lady 
Osprey. “ Her husband, I think, has deserted her; but she 
is very sensitive on the subject, and 1 have never ventured to 
allude to it since she first came to me. And she has lost two 
infants, she tells me.” 

“ Poor child,” said Lady Branchley; “ she is very young to 
have seen so much sorrow. ” 

And the first night at the manor house, when Dora came 
down-stairs to the drawing-room, in her plain black silk dress 
with her golden braids filleted with black ribbon, and a gold 
cross — Lady Rosamond’s Christmas gift — hanging at her 
throat. Lady Branchley advanced kindly toward her, with her 
white patrician hand held out. 

“ You are very welcome, Mrs. Bracy,” said she. “ I hope 
often to see you a guest at Branchley Manor House.” 

The startled look came into Dora’s eyes; she shrunk back, 
without taking Lady Branchley’s proffered hand. 


202 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Ah!’" said she, in a tone which was half a sob, “ you do 
not know who I am.” 

“ Lady Osprey has told me all,” said the elder lady, gra- 
ciously. “We all of us have troubles to bear — and yours, let 
us hope, are over now ” 

“ They will never be over,” said Dora, sadly. “ But I 
thank you. Lady Branchley, for your kindness. I have come 
here because Lady Rosamond and her aunt insisted upon it. 

1 shall trespass upon your hospitality no longer than I can 
help. In the meantime, pray — pray forgive me for coming 
here at all.” 

“It is a transgression which is easily forgiven,” said Lady 
Branchley, with a smile. But there was something in the 
friendless girl’s manner that at once piqued and interested her 
— a mingled air of defiance and entreaty— a look that was 
neither terror nor appeal, but a pitiful intermixture of both. 

She sat there in the brilliant drawing-room that night, like 
a little pale shadow, shrinking from notice behind the friendly 
shelter of the amber satin curtains. How luxurious was this 
home, which might have been hers — how sweet the breath of 
its hot-house fiowers, how summer-like the air of the steam- 
heated rooms. The walls were hung with wreaths of mistletoe 
and scarlet holly berries; fires, of some delicately perfumed 
wood, blazed under the slender columns of the marble man- 
tels, and clusters of giant ferns and fruit-laden orange and 
lemon-trees were placed in all the angles of the room, so that 
one might easily forget the frozen wind and piled-up masses of 
snow without, and fancy one’s self in the tropics. While, 
through the parted draperies of pale yellow velvet at the 
further end of the apartment, Dora could see the blossoming 
perspective of the great conservatory, with tiny lamps, swing- 
ing like miniature planets, among the palm leaves and acacia 
thickets. Servants moved noiselessly here and there; the wax 
candles in the great bronze chandelier shone softly, and there 
was an indescribable air of luxury and refinement about the 
place that Dora had never known or dreamed of. 

This, then, was her husband’s home. And a sort of chill 
seemed to paralyze her heart as she remembered the old farm- 
house on the Saratoga Road where she herself had struggled 
up from a forlorn girlhood to still more neglected woman’s 
estate. What a contrast! 

“ And in spite of all that, he loved me,” she thought, with 
wild, wistful eyes fixed on the brilliant scene. “ He loved me 
—and 1 was mad enough to fling his love away!” 

While Lady Augusta, the bride, in her dress of ivory white 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


203 


silk, with pearls glistening around her throat, and white 
camellia buds in her hair, was doing the honors of her new 
home with an easy air of proprietorship which put Lady 
Branchley herself quite in the background. 

Presently Lady Eosamond, in her white frock and broad 
ribbon sash, ran up to Dorans secluded corner. 

“ Look at Augusta cried she; “ only look at her, Dora! 
IsnH she playing grand lady to her heart’s content? It’s 
what she always coveted, and now she has got it! But we’ve 
2^repared such a surprise for Lady Branchley, Augusta and I 
— a real Christmas surprise!” 

“ What is it?” asked Dora, trying to feign an interest in 
the child’s glad absorption. 

“ It’s — oh, hush! There she comes now.” 

The door opened noiselessly — the solemn footman announced 
in a stentorian tone: 

“ Miss Branchley!” 

And Dora, looking around in expectation of beholding an- 
other of the aristocratic female relatives of the Branchley 
family-tree, beheld a beautiful little golden-tressed fairy of 
scarcely three summers, with laughing dark eyes, cheeks dyed 
pink with happy excitement, and a wreath of rosebuds on her 
head. Her dress, of embroidered India muslin, shone and 
glimmered like woven threads of pearl — her tiny feet, clad in 
white kid boots, buttoned with ivory, seemed to dance over 
tiie threshold as she flew to Lady Branchley’s arms, and there 
vvas a general exclamation of surprise and delight at the brill- 
iant little apparition. 

“Oh, look! look!” cried Lady Eosamond, unable to re- 
strain her rapture. “ It’s Helen!” 

But Dora needed no human voice to tell her that she was in 
the presence of her child. She had studied those dark, radiant 
eyes through too many long, melancholy hours, to be mistaken 
ill their expression now; she had hung, enraptured, too often 
on the tones of the child’s voice, not to recognize its accents 
now. She had started up, with a face as jiale as death, echo- 
ing Lady Eosamond’s word: 

“ Helen!” 

With a suddenness of motion entirely at variance with her 
usual quiet reticence of manner, Dora Bracy broke into the 
middle of the group, and flung herself on her knees before the 
child, who was enthroned upon Lady Branchley’s lap. 

“Nelly!” she cried, holding out both her hands, with an 
ashen white face, and eyes that glittered wildly. “ Nelly!” 


204 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


But little Helen turned her face away and buried it in her 
grandniother^s neck. 

“ Go away!^^ said she. “ 1 don^t know who you are! 1 
want grandmamma!’^ 

Dora turned away, with a sudden, silent shrinking — a pain 
like the prick of a dagger at her heart. This was the last 
brimming drop in her cup of anguish — that her own child 
should turn away from her to Lady Branchley’s arms. 

Hurrying through the guests, she made her way out upon 
the balconies, where the pale moon was shining on snowy 
ledges and solemn evergreens, and laid her throbbing forehead 
against the cold, ivy-mantled walls. 

“ Oh, my child!” she murmured. “ My little Nelly! mine 
no more! Oh, baby Walter, you never would have turned 
from me so. You would have known me and held out your 
little arms to me, if I had come to you from the end of the 
world.” 

Just then the satin -hung casement close to her opened, and 
Lady Branchley laid her hand softly on her shoulder. 

Mrs. Bracy,” said she, pray do not allow yourself to be 
hurt by a child’s unaccountable caprices. Come in out of this 
bitter cold air. Nelly will kiss you now.” 

“ Nelly will kiss you now,” echoed the child, with solemn 
brown eyes lifted to poor Dora’s face — and she came in, shiver- 
ing and pale, to the embrace to which Lady Branchley had 
bribed the child with a handful of bonbons. The touch of 
the child’s soft cheek against hers seemed to thrill her through 
and through. 

“ Nelly,” she whispered. “ Sweet little Nelly — darling 
treasure — will you love me?” 

“ Yes,” the child answered, intent upon her sugared cara- 
way seeds. 

“ Will you give me kisses whenever 1 ask for them?” 

“ Yes,” assented Nelly, struggling impatiently in her grasp. 
“ Let me get down. 1 want to go to grandmamma.” 

And the wretched mother put down her child again, with a 
sigh that was akin to a groan. Her child — and yet a stranger 
to her! 

“ Wasn’t it a charming surprise?” she could hear Lady 
Augusta saying to a plump old dowager in maroon velvet and 
diamonds. “ You see, dear Sir Basil concluded to go on to 
Egypt with a party who are looking for the sources of the 
Nile, or something—and, of course, it was entirely impractica- 
ble to take Helen with him. So he sent her back to England 
in charge of Paolo, the courier, and Agnes, the nurse, dear 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


205 


little thing, and she arrived not two hours ago. Julian and I 
knew all about it, of course, but we determined to keep our 
own secret, and give dear mamma a delightful surprise; and 
altogether it is a success. By the way, Mrs. Bracy,^^ turning 
carelessly to Dora, who sat close by, “ how do you like my 
brother-in-law^s child? Is she not all that we have painted 
her?^^ 

“ She is very beautiful,^^ said Dora, in a low voice. 

But that night, long after the mantle of silence and sleep 
had descended upon all the towers of Branchley Manor House, 
Dora sat at her casement, looking out upon the snow-veiled 
scene and thinking of life as it was— and life as it might have 
been. 

She was still sitting there, chilled and pale, in her dressing- 
gown, with the fire dying into white drifts of ashes at her feet, 
and the faint crimson of the wintery dawn beginning to irra- 
diate the eastern horizon, when there was a hurried noise of 
footsteps in the hall, and Lady Eosamond Trente, wrapped in 
a shawl, with her long black hair streaming down her back, 
rushed into the room. 

“ Dora,'^ said she, panting with terror and the haste she 
had made, “come to Aunt Aurora at once. I — I am so 
frightened!^' 

“ Is she ill?" questioned Dora, starting with alacrity to her 
feet. 

“ Yes — yes — only come quickly. I don’t think Jones un- 
derstands what to do. I have sent for Augusta, and Jennings 
has ridden off for the doctor, but it takes SO long to wake 
people up, and — ’’ 

Her words died away into hysterical sobs, as she hurried 
along the passages, dragging Dora after her. 

Poor Lady Osprey’s room was a scene of hopeless dismay 
and confusion. She lay quite silent and insensible in her bed, 
with her gray head supported on the arm of Jones, the maid. 
Lady Augusta, in a dressing-robe of pale-pink cashmere, stood 
sobbing and shivering close to her, and Lady Branchley was 
stooping over her, vainly trying to force some restorative be- 
tween her closed teeth. 

One glance was quite enough for Dora. She put her arms 
tenderly about the weeping Lady Eosamond, and gently drew 
her away. 

“ If she would only speak to me once!’’ wailed the girl. 
“ If she would only look at me!’’ 

“ She will never speak again, dear Eosamond,’’ said Dora, 
in a low tone. “ She is dead.’’ 


206 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


For the trumpet-call had sounded suddenly in the night, 
and Lady Osprey, full of years and honors, had gone home. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

DAILY TRIALS. 

“ Of course there can be no sort of doubt about it,^^ said 
Lady Augusta Branchley. “ Rosamond must stay here/^ 

Lady Rosamond Trente, still dressed in the deep mourning 
robes of crape and bombazine that she had worn at her aunty’s 
funeral, looked up with a quivering lip and tear-drenched 
eyes. 

“ I would rather go back to The Chestnuts,^’ said she. 

“But you can not,^^ said Lady Augusta, a little impatient- 
ly. “ The Chestnuts is ours no longer — it has passed into the 
possession of Uncle Osprey’s heirs-at-law, and is to be sold at 
auction as soon as possible. You have no home, Rosamond, 
except with me. ” 

“ You will try to be happy here, dear Rosamond?” caressed 
Lady Branchley, who held one of the girl’s cold hands in hers; 
“ of course we can not expect to take the place of your dear 
aunt, but we love you dearly, and — ” 

“ 1 shall be living on charity!” cried out Rosamond, pas- 
sionately. 

“ Charity? What nonsense!” sharply spoke Lady Augusta. 
“ Nothing can be more proper and appropriate. Julian him- 
self suggested it. My home shall be yours, of course — at least 
until you come of age.” 

“ If I were a grown woman like Dora Bracy,” burst out 
poor Lady Rosamond, “ I could earn my own living! Oh, I 
wish I were a laborer’s daughter, and then 1 could go out to 
service. ” 

“ Rosamond, I think you are a little crazy,” said Lady 
Augusta. “ Be thankful that I am able to offer you such a 
home, before you burst out into vain and idle repinines like 
these.” 

“ 1 shall not stay here unless Dora stays with me,” said 
Lady Rosamond. 

“ Of course Mrs. Bracy will stay with you,” said Lady 
Augusta Branchley. “ And I do not entertain the least doubt 
that she will be very glad to continue on in so desirable a situ- 
ation.” 

Lady Rosamond went straight to her governess. 

“ Dora,” said she, “ Augusta says I have no home, and that 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


207 


1 must stay on here; but I will not, unless you will promise to 
stay with me. Will you?^^ 

The startled look which Lady Branchley had so often ob- 
served and marveled at came into Theodora^s eyes. She 
paused and hesitated for a moment or two. 

“ Tell me/^ persisted Lady Eosamond, “ will you?’^ 

“For the present, yes,^^ Dora answered, slowly. “ Why 
not? Yes, I will stay with you.^^ 

And when Lady Eosamond had gone back to her sister, 
Dora took her hat and sacque — a pretty, close-fitting sealskin, 
which Lady Osprey had bestowed upon her only a few days 
before she died — and hurried out into the grounds, where an 
orange sunset was shining over all the wintery world, and the 
cedars tossed their black-green crests at every blast of wind. 

“ It is fate!^^ cried she, wildly “ and I will strive against it 
no longer. 1 will stay on at Branchley Manor House; but the 
instant my husband turns his footsteps homeward, 1 shall flee 
once more out into the world. He need not fear that 1 shall 
ever again force my unwelcome presence upon him. 

And so Dora Bracy became a member of the family at 
Branchley Manor House, finding some salve for her bleeding 
heart-wounds in little Helenas growing beauty and intelli- 
gence, and in Lady Eosamond Trente^s devoted affection. Sir 
Basil Branchley^s daughter had become fond of the pale, quiet 
governess— so demonstratively so, that Agnes, the nurse, be- 
came passionately jealous. 

“ If my little lady is going to prefer that Mrs. Bracy to me 
in everything,” said Mrs. Agnes, indignantly, “ I don’t see 
as there is any occasion for my remaining in the family.” 

“ Neither do I,” said Lady Augusta Branchley, who had 
chanced to overhear the pert remark. “ You may consider 
yourself discharged, Agnes. ” 

“Please, my lady,” said Agnes, rather taken aback, “if 
Mrs. Bracy has been making any complaints about me—” 

“ Set your mind at rest, Agnes,” said Lady Augusta, with 
the imperial air which she knew so w^ell how to assume, “ no 
complaints have been made; but I think Mrs. Bracy’s influ- 
ence is more beneficial over Miss Branchley than your own.” 

“ If you please, my lady,” said Agnes, with one last strug- 
gle in her own behoof, “ I was engaged by Sir Basil himself.” 

“ And you are dismissed by me,” said Lady Augusta; “ so 
let there be an end of the matter.” 

Agnes burst into tears, and retired at once, while Lady 
Augusta went to the boudoir, where Lady Eosamond was 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


practicing her scales, and Dora was dreaming over an open 
book. 

“ Dora,^^ said she, “ I have discharged Helenas nurse. The 
woman was really getting too insolent and domineering for 
endurance. 

The book slid from Dora’s hands to the floor. 

“ Oh!’’ cried she, with radiant face, and eyes full of spark- 
ling lights, “ if / might only have the charge of her.” 

“ Would you like it?” said Lady Augusta. 

“ Oh, so much!” cried Dora. 

“ Well, it is just what I was going to ask of you,” smiled 
Lady Augusta. “ I know you are fond of children — and, 
really, Nell idolizes you, and there is Sarah for all the nurse- 
maid part of the work. Agnes is a common sort of a person, 
and I think Helen needs a more refined influence.” 

With this new order of arrangements^ a sort of subdued 
happiness seemed to pass into poor Theodora’s storm-tossed 
life. The dark hours still hung over her — the hours in which 
she cried aloud to Heaven to give her back her husband’s for- 
feited love, her little lost boy, whose blue eyes haunted her 
like a dream — but her nature was of the ivy sort that clings 
to whatever is nearest, and little Helen’s beauty and winning 
ways, most of all, her demonstrative affection, were like a 
balm to the mother’s sore heart. There were times when life 
at Branchley Manor House became irksome to her — times in 
which Lady Augusta’s cool patronage galled her. Mr. 
Branchley’s critical allusions to his absent brother brought the 
angry crimson to her cheek. More than once, too, she was 
compelled to sit silently by and hear herself discussed in terms 
which were far from pleasant. One occasion in particular 
branded itself into her memory with indissoluble distinctness. 
They had been looking at a photograph of Sir Basil, which 
had been sent home from abroad, and — strange conjunction 
of circumstances — it had been the soft hand of Sir Basil’s wife 
which had wiped the tears from his mother’s eyes. 

“ Mamma,” said Lady Augusta, jealously, “ why are you 
crying? Julian is with you still.” 

Lady Branchley tried to smile. 

“My darling,” she said, faintly, “Julian is a dear and 
cherished son — but he is not Basil, my first-born boy.” 

“ Neither has he flung away his life and prospects like 
Basil,” retorted Lady Augusta, with a red spot kindling in 
either cheek. 

“ After all, Augusta,” interposed Lady Eosamond, who 
was sitting on the floor playing jackstones with Helen, “ you 


LO^TE AT SARATOGA. 


209 


are reaping the benefits of BasiFs folly. For if he hadnH 
ruined himself with that American wife, you wouldn’t have 
been queening it at Branchley Manor House, as you are doing 
now.” 

“ Pshaw!” ejaculated Lady Augusta, contemptuously. 

“ Or if the American wife hadn’t run away and left him,” 
went on relentless Lady Eosamond, “ he would perhaps have 
brought her here — ” 

“ Never!” hotly interposed Lady Augusta. 

“ And she would have been the lady of the manor instead 
of you,” added Lady Eosamond. “ Take care, Nell; you 
stirred the pile then! It’s my turn, now.” 

“Fancy a Yankee milk-maid domineering over us all!” 
laughed Lady Augusta, in no sweetly mirthful mood. 

“ I do wonder what she was like,” said Lady Eosamond, 
suddenly straightening herself up, and looking at Lady 
Branchley. “ Di(J you never see any picture of her. Lady 
Branchley?” 

Dora rose, and walked hurriedly across the room to the 
window. 

“ Lady Branchley,” said she, “ do you think it is too early 
for Helen’s walk?” 

“ Oh, quite,” said the elder lady, serenely. “Wait half 
an hour, Dora — the sun will be lower then and the air cooler. 
No, my dear,” — to Lady Eosamond — “ I never did. Basil 
wished to show me her picture once, but it was when my 
heart was sorest, and my feelings in most acute rebellion 
against his foreign marriage. I spoke suddenly, and alas! 
unreflectingly, and said that 1 cared to see neither picture nor 
original. He never offered to show it to me again — my poor 
boy!” 

“ I suppose she must have been wonderfully beautifully,” 
said Lady Eosamond, gathering up the pile of jackstones and 
scrambling to her feet. 

“ She was, if Basil’s word is to be credited,” sighed Lady 
Branchley. “And I have often since said to myself that 
there must have been something noble and winning about her 
ox he never would have loved her so! Dora, my child, you 
are bending too closely over that worsted work. Do you find 
your eyes are becoming strained, or is the canvas too fine?” 

Poor Dora! A fawn, hunted to the death, may have turned 
upon her pursuers with something of the agonized look which 
she lifted to Lady Branchley’s sweet, compassionate face. 

“ I do not think I am well,” said she, starting to her feet. 
“ T will go upstairs, please. Lady Branchley, and lie down.” 


210 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ By all means, my dear/'” said Lady Braiichley. “ 1 fear 
you have been rather overtasking yourself lately with Rosa- 
mond and Helen both. Indeed, 1 sometimes think that per- 
haps we had better engage a separate nursery governess for 
Helen, if — ” 

“ Oh, Lady Branchley!”Jcried Dora, in an agony of vague 
apprehension, “ pray, pray do not think of such a thing. In- 
deed, 1 am quite strong; it is only the heat of the weather, 
and nervousness, and — ” 

She broke down here, hiding her tears in the golden tresses 
of little Helen, who had run up to her and climbed into her 
arms. 

“Are you going upstairs? Do, do!” said Helen, in the 
slow, deliberate way that she had inherited from her father. 
“ I will go, too. ” 

And Dora went out of the room, her head still bowed down 
over the child in her arms. 

“ Mamma,” said Lady Augusta, who had watched the little 
scena with a curiously supercilious air, “ do you know that I 
think we are rather spoiling Rosa’s little governess between 
us?” 

“ Spoiling her!” cried Rosamond, angrily. “You couldn’t 
spoil Dora Bracy if you were to try, Augusta; she is the sweet- 
est, gentlest, most unselfish person I ever saw.” 

“1 quite agree with Rosamond,” said Lady Branchley. 
“ To me, Dora is one of the most charming characters in the 
world.” 

Lady Augusta tossed her head. “ Well,” said she, “ go on 
with this idol worship of yours. Spoil your rara avis as much 
as you please; but when you find the mischief is done, don’t 
blame me for it!” 

• Many of these trials was Dora compelled, perforce, to 
undergo, but their iteration by no means eased the sting. 
The color always rose as hotly to her cheeks, the heart always 
beat as suffocatingly swift at every mention of the name of 
Sir Basil Branchley’s proscribed wife as it had done the first 
moment in which she heard herself canvassed as people talk of 
a dead and buried woman. There was nothing they could say 
to which her penitent heart did not answer “ Amen no 
accusation to which she was not ready to humble herself in 
the dust and cry “ Mea culpa, mea culpa /” But there were 
times in which she would have given worlds to be able to re- 
tort: “But I loved him! I loved him! Had he married a 
princess of the realm, she could not have loved him more 
dearly, more truly, more eternally than / do!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


211 


And so, in this strange, suppressed sort of life, the weeks 
and months crept away — ay, and the years — until Lady Rosa- 
mond Trente had blossomed into a beautiful dark-browed 
maiden of sixteen, and Helen Branchley was a gypsy of be- 
tween five and six, full of mischievous freaks and captivating 
caprices — a child with a temper that blazed up like a volcano 
on the slightest provocation, and subsided into summer calm 
with instant contrast. The “ American temper,^^ Lady Branch- 
Jey would call it, with a smile, for she declared that the little 
siren had never inherited it from the Branchley side of her 
lineage. 

“ It is one of her unfortunate heritages from her mother, 1 
dare say/’ Lady Branchley remarked. “ Although why I 
should call it an ‘ American temper,^ I do not know, for you 
are an American by birth, Dora, and 1 am sure you have the 
sweetest and most equable temper in the world. 

“ I was not always so, said Dora, sadly. “ I can remem- 
ber being as stormy and ungovernable as Helen herself.^’ 

The birth of a beautiful little boy to Julian Branchley and 
his wife was an event hailed with delight. 

“ The heir!’^ cried Lady Augusta, when first they laid him 
in her arms. 

“ Perhaps, said Julian, dryly. 

“ There is no ‘ perhaps ^ about it,^^ cried Lady Augusta. 
“ If Basil’s son had been in the land of the living, we should 
have heard from him long ago. Heirs to an estate like this 
do not lie perdu, like pearls in an oyster-shell; kiss him, 
J ulian — your son — the heir to Branchley. ’’ 

And the bright tears sparkled into Lady Augusta’s eyes — 
tears of mingled pride and happiness. 

Even Sir Basil’s mother accepted the fact without any ap- 
parent doubt. 

“ The heir to Branchley,” she repeated, softly, when she 
bent to press her lips to the baby’s velvet forehead. “ Thank 
God that the old manor house will still be continued on, in 
the direct line of the entail.” 

Julian Branchley stood silently by, with his near-sighted eyes 
curiously dilated, like those of a tiger, his dark brows con- 
tracted with thought. 

Mother,” said he, “are we not all a little premature? 
Have we any right to assume that my poor brother’s son—” 

“Alas!” said Lady Branchley, “I fear that there is no 
possible doubt upon that subject. And 1 know that Basil is 
suflSciently large-hearted and magnanimous to welcome your 


212 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


son into the vacant place in his heart, now that the grave has 
closed over his own.'’^ 

And so they wrote to Sir Basil, camping under the palm- 
trees of Oriental deserts, of the birth of a second Basil Branch- 
ley; and his answeriug letter, written in a sort of melancholy 
kindness, expressed a fervent hope that he, J ulian, would be 
happier in his son than Sir Basil had been in his. 

From that time henceforward Julian Branchley looked 
upon himself as the probable successor to all the rank and 
possessions of the manor house. He took the management 
of affairs, financial and otherwise, into his own hands; he 
issued orders and changed investments with an air of absolute 
possessorship, which scandalized old Angevine, the steward, to 
the last degree. In fact, the old man sat down, and with pain- 
fully rheumatic fingers penned a stiff letter to the reigning 
baronet, in which he recorded his grievances. 

“ Sir Basil ain^t neither non nor a baby,^^ said old 

Angevine, “ and yet Mr. Julian, he don’t scruple to behave 
exactly as if he was. I’ve heerd of dead men’s shoes, but I 
never heerd of folkses puttin’ ’em on and wearin’ ’em while 
the breath was yet in the owners’ bodies. And it’s a shame, 
so it is, and if nobody else won’t interfere, I will, or my name 
ain’t Stephen Angevine. And I rather think there’s stuff in 
this letter as will bring Sir Basil Branchley home, post 
haste!” 

But to the infinite amazement and chagrin of Mr. Angevine, 
Sir Basil only answered his letter with a few brief lines, 
wherein he clearly stated, that, during his absence, Mr. Julian 
Branchley was quite authorized to act according to his own 
judgment in all matters pertaiuing to the family property and 
affairs. 

“ 1 never seen anything like it in all my born days!” gasped 
old Angevine. 

And Theodora, the heart-broken young mother of the miss- 
ing heir, was compelled to stand calmly by and see Julian 
Branchley’s black-eyed little son elevated triumphantly into 
the throne to which her own child of right possessed the scep- 
ter. He was a pretty boy, and she was naturally fond of chil- 
dren, but she shrunk instinctively from this tiny monarch of 
the Branchley nursery. 

There is only one possible way in which Basil can be cut 
out of the Branchley inheritance,” said Lady Augusta one 
day. 

“ And that?” said her husband. 

“ If your brother should marry again, and have an heir of 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


213 


his own, said Lady Augusta. “It is not improbable, you 
know. Seven years of desertion constitute a divorce, they tell 
me, in that savage country which BasiFs wife came from. 
And, after all, why shouldn't he begin the world a second 
time at his age?” 

“ It is not all probable,^^ said Julian. “ My brother Basil 
is not a man who lightly turns and changes in his feelings. 
And, however unworthy this girl may have been of his affec- 
tion, there is no sort of doubt but that Basil did love her with 
all the strength and depth of his whole nature — ay, and will 
love her to the end!” 

And Theodora, who was sitting by the fire helping little 
Helen with a complicated sampler stitch which she was ambi- 
tious to learn, looked up with a strange, joyous glitter in her 
eyes, and a quick-drawn breath. 

“Dodo,” cried the little girl, “you’re not attending. 
Dodo.” 

“ No, dearest,” said Dora, in a low voice, as she pressed 
the little figure close to her; “ but I will attend now!” 

“ He does not know — how should he?” she pondered to 
herself when Helen’s little demands were satisfied. “ He only 
knows that Basil loved me once. But I think — I sometimes 
think — that if Basil knew all I have felt, and suffered, and 
undergone, he would absolve me from my sins and take me 
back into the paradise of his heart. ” 

For Dora was at once wretched and happy at Branchley 
Manor House. Wretched in the sight of all that she had 
wrecked ; happy in the vague sense that she was in Ms home, 
treading where his footsteps had once walked, making her way 
surely, although slowly, into the affection of Ms mother. 
Night after night she fell asleep with his child and hers 
clasped close to her heart; morning after morning she awoke 
with Helen’s sweet breath upon her cheek. Was it possible 
to be wholly miserable, under all these circumstances? 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

VISITORS AT BRANCHLEY MANOR. 

The apple blossoms of little Basil Branchley’s third birth- 
day were showering their tiny pink shells down upon the lanes 
that surrounded the manor house — the May sunshine was woo- 
ing violets and daffodils into bloom in every cottage garden, 
and Jeannette, the white-capped Norman nurse, who was 
teaching the heir to chatter his nursery rhymes in the purest 


214 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


French accent, had taken both the children out under a spread- 
ing Spanish chestnut-tree in the lane, where she sat knitting, 
while Helen ran and laughed, with long links of dandelion 
chains in her plump hands, and Basil toddled after, crowing 
and shrieking in infantine emulation, his wide blue sash glanc-, 
ing in the grass like a living flower, his dark, tropical beauty 
contrasting with Helenas golden curls and complexion of min- 
gled snow and carnation. Further in the labyrinths of bud- 
ding trees Dora walked, her fair face overshadowed by a 
broad-brimmed garden-hat, her eyes intent on the pages of a 
book. But, despite her absorption in the volume, every peal 
of Helen’s sweet laughter left its impress on her ears, every 
glimmer of the child’s burnished hair printed its yellow shine 
upon her vision. 

“ Madame need not incommode herself to come out into the 
air,” said Jeannette, in voluble French. 1 myself will as- 
sume the care of la yetite mademoiselle while Monsieur Basil 
plays with her, and will myself agree to bring her back to 
madame, all perfectly safe.” 

“ Thank you, Jeannette,” Dora answered, with the sweet 
sad smile that endeared her to all the dependents of the manor 
house, “but I never leave Mademoiselle Helene for a single 
instant. ” 

All, del! quelle devotion!’" murmured the honne, with a 
sentimental uplifting of her brows, “ madame should herself 
have been a mother!” 

And she knitted away, singing a monotonous provincial re- 
frain under her breath, and glancing up ever and anon in 
watchful care lest the newly curled hair, the embroidered 
skirts, and glistening gold sleeve clasps of her little charge 
should in any way be injured by his heedless, romping sport. 

While this little scene was transpiring at the back of the 
house, J ulian Branchley sat writing in his library on the north- 
ern side, and a middle-aged woman, comely dressed, and 
browned with the sun and wind, was trudging across a by- 
path, or species of short cut, which led from the Branchley 
road almost directly to the library door; a path which was sel- 
dom used by any one but Mr. Branchley himself, and wound 
around hedges of laurel and rhododendron. She walked slowly 
and as if she were very tired, and close at her side trotted a 
fair-haired little lad with blue eyes and a pretty, slender fig- 
ure, disguised by ill-fitting clothes. 

“ Is this the place. Aunt Joanna?” said he, looking up with 
intent regard at the stately mansion of cream-colored stone. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 215 

with its time-darkened gables, and oriels of rich, stained 
glass. 

“ You^re not to call me Aunt Joanna,^^ said the woman, 
sharply. “lam Mrs. Beckwith, as I\e told you half a hun- 
dred times before. Yes, this is the place, and a fine sightly 
spot it is,^^ stretching her long neck to get a better view of 
the ivy-garlanded walls. “ Come!^^ 

And the first warning that Julian Branchley had of the pres- 
ence of unexpected visitors was a stealthy step on the deep 
crimson pile of the Persian carpet, a shadow falling darkly 
across his desk. 

He looked up sharply and suddenly at the woman and 
child, and laid down his pen, with a gesture of irritation. 

“ Who are you?'^ he demanded. “ And what do you want? 
Ho you know that this is a private room?^^ 

He had risen to his feet as he spoke, and the ominous light- 
ing of his dark eyes would have awed any one less determined 
than Miss Joanna Beck. 

She dropped a stiff, ungainly courtesy; for years had in no- 
wise improved or added to the personal charms of Miss Joanna. 
“Ami speaking to Sir Basil Branchley?^'’ said she, her fur- 
tive eyes taking in all the luxurious surroundings as she ut- 
tered the words. 

“ Sir Basil Branchley is, at present, in Palestine, stiffly 
answered Julian. “ But 1 am his representative.^^ 

“ Oh,^^ said Joanna. “You are Mr. Julian?’^ 

“ I am Mr. Julian Branchley. Have the goodness to state 
yopr business, and be quick about it. My time is much occu- 
pied.^’ 

“ Wally,” said Miss Joanna, glancing at an illustrated 
county map on the table, “ just you take that picture-book 
and go the window for awhile. There’s a nice seat there, just 
right for you, and I’ll go bail there is lots of things as’ll inter- 
est you!” 

The boy, who had been looking solemnly up into the strange 
gentleman’s dark face, obeyed involuntarily. As Julian 
Branchley ’s eye fell on him, he advanced a step or two as if 
to speak, then stopped. 

“ What child is that?” he cried out, huskily. 

Joanna Beck came so close to him that only the baize-cov- 
ered table intervened between them, and leaning over it she 
said, in a low tone: 

“ He is Sir Basil Branchley ’s son.” 

Julian laughed hoarsely. 

“ Woman,” said he, “ what do you take me for?” 


216 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“1 donH take you for anything, Mr. Julian Branchley/" 
said she. “ I merely state the facts. He is Sir Basil's son— 
and I, who bring him here, am his mother's sister. " 

“ How can you prove this?" demanded Julian, moistening 
his dry lips with his tongue. 

“ I'll tell you, Mr. Branchley," said Joanna, letting herself 
sink into a leather-cushioned chair, carved in rich Gothic 
points and studded with silver nails, and glancing around 
where the little boy, curled up in the window-seat with his 
coarsely shod feet under him, was intent on the pictures of the 
“ County Map." “ It's four years ago, and more, since my 
sister— Sir Basil's wife— brought these two children to my 
house, and left 'em in my care, while she went — or at least so 
she said — to look for her husband. I suspicioned then that 
she meant to leave them on my hands, and after-circumstances 
showed that 1 was right. She never came back for 'em, nor 
she never wrote. AVell, Mr. Julian Branchley, 1 am a work- 
ing-woman, and it was all I could do to maintain myself, let 
alone two great growing children. And while 1 was turning 
it over in my mind what to do, a fine lady came along and 
wanted to adopt Walter, the boy. I let him go, of course; 
he was a deal of trouble, and 1 never was fond of chil- 
dren. And then I had a chance to go to some friends in 
Vermont, and I just put Helen, the girl, into an institution 
and got 'em both off my hands. WeJl, I stayed a spell with 
my cousins up North — but somehow we didn't hit it off to- 
gether — and a few months ago I came back to Saratoga. 
Then the neighbors told me as Sir Basil himself had been back 
after his children, and had taken Helen with him, and was 
mortal put out because he could get no tidings of Walter. 1 
heard of Walter up in Vermont, Mrs. Cheswick, as adopted 
him, lived in Burlington, not a great way from my relatives; 
but I had taken particular good care not to let on as I was 
anywhere in the neighborhood, for I didn't know but they 
might change their minds at any minute, and I had no notion 
of going into the orphan asylum business again for nobody. 1 
knew the child was taken good care of, and that was all as con- 
cerned me one way or the other. But Mrs. Cheswick died — 
and Mr. Cheswick, he didn't want to be bothered with the 
care of a baby like that — and they was just a-calculating 
where to put him, when I came to Burlington for him, for 1 
thought, you see, as Sir Basil would be glad to get his child 
back again — and if any one was to get a reward, why not me? 
And I turned, and twisted, and scraped, and saved, to get to- 
gether enough money to cross the ocean, and here I am now! 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


217 


And there is Sir Basil Branchley^s son, and the son of my 
half-sister, Theodora!’^ 

She leaned back in her chair with folded arms and an aspect 
of grim content. 

“ All this is very well,^^ said Julian, who had listened to 
the briefly told tale with ill-disguised uneasiness; “ but 1 do 
not suppose that you expect me to believe it.^’ 

Miss Joanna rose to her feet. “ Why shouldnH you believe 
it?^’ demanded she, brusquely; “ it^s gospel truth, every word 
of it. Kerens the boy, and I’m willing to swear to his iden- 
tity.” 

“ Branohley Manor House is a flne inheritance,” observed 
Mr. Branchley, coldly: “there’s nothing to prevent half a 
dozen children starting up as claimants for it.” 

“ Humph!” grunted Miss Joanna, “ you think I’m an im- 
postor.” 

“ I think,” said Julian Branchley, “ that you have miscal- 
culated the sort of person you have to deal with in me.” 

But, even while Julian Branchley spoke, his lower lip was 
only kept from quivering by the steady grasp of his teeth, and 
his eye roamed furtively from the unconscious child in the 
window-seat to the grim female who sat facing him like a 
grenadier. 

Miss Joanna rose up and began retying the strings of the 
bonnet she had unfastened. 

“ Well,” said she, “ I don’t just know where Palestine is, 
but I guess I can make out by inquiring. And I shouldn’t 
wonder if Sir Basil Branchley himself made me more welcome 
than you do. Come, Walter!” 

“ Stay a moment,” said Julian, with a deep -red glow com- 
ing into his dark face. “ Mind, I do not credit a word you 
have been saying.” 

“ You might as well tell me I’m a liar at once, and be done 
with it,” said Joanna, indignantly. 

“ My brother’s boy is dead,” added Julian. “ He has been 
dead for four years — and all these transparent attempts to ex- 
tort money are quite useless. But—” he paused, looking 
Joanna hard in the face. 

“ Well?” 

“ You have had a long journey, and the child seems a fine 
little fellow enough. You can leave him here, if you please. 
I know some respectable parties, not far from here, who will 
be glad to give him a home, and bring him up to a respectable 
trade. In short, I will undertake to see that he is provided 
for. As for you — ” 


21S 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ Well — as for me?’^ said Miss Joanna, listening shrewdly, 
with one eye half closed, and her lips screwed tightly together. 

“ I am willing to pay your passage back to America, and 
give you a little present of money, for all the useless trouble 
you have taken/^ 

“ What may be your idea of a little present of money?* ^ 
asked the woman, slowly. 

“ Fifty pounds!** said Julian Branchley, at hazard. 

Joanna Beck calculated within herself. 

“ Fifty pounds!** she muttered under her breath. “ That 
is two hundred and fifty dollars of our money. It ain*t as 
much as I expected — but may be it*s better than traveling on 
to Palestine, and perhaps missing Sir Basil after all. Well,** 
turning to Julian, “ it*s a bargain.** 

“ Stop!** said Mr. Branchley. “You have not heard all 
the conditions.** 

“ Conditions?** 

“Yes. In the first place, this is an entirely confidential 
transaction between you and me. You are to return to your 
country as quietly as you came. I do not want the feelings 
of my relatives harrowed by any sensational stories.** 

“ Who wants to harrow *em?** said Miss Joanna, curtly. 
“idon*t!** 

‘ ‘ In the second place, the child is to be given over entirely, 
and without reserve, to my keeping. ** 

“ Of course,** said Joanna. 

“ In the third place, you are to pledge yourself never to 
communicate with Sir Basil Branchley upon this subject.** 

“ Agreed,** nodded Joanna. 

“ Here is the money,** said Julian Branchley, unlocking a 
drawer in the lower part of his desk and producing a rouleau 
of gold pieces. “ As for your passage money, I will at once 
telegraph to my London agents to secure you accommoda- 
tions in the next steamer that sails from Southampton, under 
the name of — ** 

“ Of Joanna Beck.** 

“ Very well,** nodded Mr. Branchley. “ Did any of the 
servants see you come?** 

“No!** with a grim smile. 

“ All the better. If you follow this little path through the 
shrubberies, you will be able to retrace your way to the road 
without being seen.** 

“ It*s the way 1 came,** said Joanna. “ Well, Mr. Julian 
Branchley, 1 wish ye a very good-morning. I think you might 
have made a more liberal bargain with me; but there*s a 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


219 


proverb in my country,* which says that half a loaf is better 
than no bread. 

“ 1 hardly consider this in the light of a tar gain , said Mr. 
Branchley, coldly. 

“ Don^’t you?^^ said Miss Joanna. “ Well, I do. Good- 
bye, Walter. 

The child looked around with a start, and seeing, his aunt 
about to depart, caught up his frayed little straw hat, and ran 
to her side, with one regretful backward look to the “ Country 
Map,^^ whose splendors he had but half explored. 

“ You^re not to go, Walter,^’ said Miss Joanna; “ you’re to 
stay here with this gentleman.” 

“ Am I?” The boy glanced timidly up at the swarthy- 
faced stranger with his eyeglasses, and the two deep wrinkles 
between his brows — and Julian well-nigh recoiled at the blue 
clear light of Basil’s very eyes shining up into his own. 

“ This gentleman’s fond of little boys,” said Joanna, iron- 
ically. “ He’ll be very kind to you. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye,” Walter answered, in a puzzled sort of way, 
without offering or seeming to expect anything in the nature 
of a parting caress. Poor little lad! he had been so tossed and 
buffeted about the world that he had come to regard himself 
as belonging to no one in particular, and knew nothing of the 
fond caresses, the protecting cares which are the natural her- 
itage of other children. 

Mr. Branchley looked moodily down upon him as Joanna 
disappeared among the shrubberies. 

“ Little boy,” said he, “ what is your name?” 

“ Walter Branchley Cheswick,” the little fellow answered, 
promptly. 

“ How old are you?” 

“lam six, going on seven.” 

“ Where are your parents?” went on Julian Branchley, at- 
tentively studying the round, surnburned face, above which 
the flaxen curls clustered in rich abundance. 

“ Papa is in England,” said Walter. “ And mamma ran 
away from me when 1 was but a little child. If you please, 
sir, 1 am very hungry, and 1 would like a piece of bread and 
butter.” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Branchley. “That is natural enough, 
too. ” 

He touched a spring in one of the fine old carved ebony 
cabinets that occupied the angles of the apartment, and 
reached a compartment in which were tropical fruits, oranges, 
bananas, and hot-house grapes, piled up on a silver salver, and 


220 


LOVli AT SARATOGA. 


a silver stand of wines in glistening cut-glass bottles. Part of 
a cold roast fowl, and some light French rolls were arranged 
on a plate beyond, with a silver knife and fork, and a tete-a- 
Ute service of pale-blue Sevres china, for it was J ulian Branch- 
ley’s fancy always to have refreshments within his reach, in 
case he did not care to leave his library for the dining apart- 
ment, for the regular hours of meals, or, as was often the 
custom, his studies, were prolonged late into the night. He 
took out one of the pale-blue plates with tiny landscapes paint- 
ed on its center, carved a liberal piece of chicken, broke a 
roll, and laid a bunch of blooming grapes round it, while lit- 
tle Walter stared as if the tall, dark man, with the stoop in 
his shoulders, had been one of the magicians in the “ Arabian 
Nights,” of whose wonderful deeds kind Mrs. Cheswick had 
tol3 him. 

“ Eat!” said Mr. Branchley, briefly — and Walter did eat as 
if he was famished, while Julian paced slowly up and down 
the room with folded arms, watching the fair-haired little lad 
from under his bent brows, and thinking. 

Of course it was an imposture — all an atrocious piece of 
blackmail, this story of Sir Basil’s son being yet alive. Of 
course there was no slightest foundation of truth in the whole 
thing. But still it behooved him, Julian Branchley, as the 
representative of his absent brother, to crush the whole mon- 
strous fable in its inception. Where would be the end of such 
lies as this, if they were allowed to flourish unchecked? The 
boy seemed a frank-faced, smiling little fellow enough, with 
no lack of confidence; but the idea of his being Sir Basil’s lost 
child! Absurd — perfectly absurd! The idea of this nameless 
transatlantic waif, probably picked out of some “ Orphanage ” 
or “ Refuge,” obtruding himself between little Basil and the 
Branchley estates! 

Julian broke into a low, hoarse laugh at the idea. 

And all the time he knew, as well as if an angel’s prophetic 
voice had announced it to him, that the little child before him, 
with his dusty shoes and sun-embrowned face, and blue, clear 
eyes, was the son and heir of his absent brother! 

Little Walter looked up, as the moody man passed by him 
with muttering lips and abstracted eyes. 

“ Some one is knocking,” said he. “ Shall I open the 
door?” 

“Stay where you are,” said Julian, almost savagely, and 
advancing to the door, he said, without opening it: 

“ Who is there? What do you waut?” 

It was Lady Augusta’s maid. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 221 

“ If you please, sir,” said she, “ my lady wants to know if 
you will be ready to drive out with her at one o’clock?” 

“Tell your mistress 1 am particularly engaged to-day,” 
said he. “I shall not go out at all. ” 

He locked the door as he spoke, and the woman went away, 
thinking to herself that master got queerer every day. 

J ulian was turning away, when he felt the skirts of his coat 
pulled gently. 

“ If you please, sir,” said Walter, “ I should like a drink.” 

Julian glared down into the blue, frank eyes that were the 
living copy of Sir Basil’s. 

“A drink?” said he, slowly. “Yes, you shall have a 
drink.” 

He went once more to the secret cupboard, and took out one 
of the glittering many-fauceted bottles which occupied the 
silver liqueur stand. It was some time before he could find a 
goblet to suit himself, as he stood there trembling, with his 
back to the child. But presently he turned around with a 
glass half full of pale-red wine. 

“ Do you like wine, boy?” said he, trying to smile affably, 

“ I don’t know what it’s like,” said Walter, dubiously. 

“ It is sweet and good,” said Julian; “ you will like it. I 
shall pour a little water into this, however; it is rather too 
strong for a child. Now drink it. ” 

He held the goblet to Walter’s lips — the boy drank eagerly. 

“ It is good,” said he. “ I should like some more.” 

“ Not just now,” said Julian. “ Are you not tired? Would 
you not like to lie down .and sleep?” 

“ If you please,” said docile Walter, who, although he did 
not feel in the least degree sleepy, was anxious to conciliate 
his new guardian. 

Mr. Branchley opened the door of a little closet, adjacent to 
the library, which had been fitted up for his own use as a sort 
of dressing-room. Opposite the entrance was a low walnut 
sofa, with a tasseled pillow fiung upon its arm. 

“Lie down there,” said Julian Branchley. “You are 
tired — sleep will do you good.” 

Walter lay down obediently, and closed his eyes, in the reso- 
lute effort to do the dark gentleman’s will. Quiet and obedient 
as he seemed, there was a world of vague conjectures and per- 
plexities at work within his infant brain. He had been trained 
by his aunt Joanna in the good old fashionable doctrine that 
“ children must be seen and not heard;” he had been tutored 
that it was an arch offense for little boys to ask questions; so 


222 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


he lay there pondering to himself, and wondering what all this 
meant. 

“ He canH be my papa,^^ thought Walter, wistfully, as the 
door closed softly upon him, with an almost inaudible grating 
of the key in its lock. ‘ ‘ My papa would have kissed me, and 
been glad. I don’t think he is glad. But perhaps he is going 
to take me to my papa!” 

And then Walter fell to staring at the pretty pictures which 
hung around the walls, and wondering what was the use of the 
great silver dressing-case and all its sparkling bottles; and just 
as he was marveling whether or not his aunt Joanna was 
coming back, and secretly hoping she would not, he fell fast 
asleep. 

And all this time J ulian Branchley was pacing, pacing up 
and down the room, with folded arms, and stern, set face. 


CHAPTEE XXXVI. 

A child’s hat. 

“ My dear Julian, how pale you are!” was Lady Augusta 
Branchley’s exclamation to her husband, as he made his ap- 
pearance at the dinner-tabJe that evening. 

“ Pale! Am 1?” Julian called up a galvanic smile to his 
lips, which was about as similar to the genuine article as is the 
yellow blaze of a pyrotechnic display to the soft glare of sun- 
shine. “ I believe I have been studying [pretty closely, but 
otherwise I am quite well.” 

“ That is fortunate,” remarked Lady Augusta, serenely; 
“ because you know we are engaged to Mrs. Conyngham’s 
charade party for this evening.” 

Julian looked perplexed. “Mrs. Conyngham’s charade 
party!” said he. “ Upon my word, 1 had forgotten all about 
it. And in any event, I shall be unable to keep my engage- 
ment.” 

“ You don’t mean,” cried Lady Augusta, “ that you are 
not going?” 

“ 1 do mean that 1 am not going.” 

“But, Julian, what will Mrs. Conyngham think? What 
will people say?” 

“ What they please,” said Mr. Branchley, calmly. “ I 
have letters to write, and business papers of the utmost im- 
portance to look over that will keep me engaged until a late 
hour, and any such foolery as charade parties is quite beside 
the question. ” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


233 


Lady Augusta pouted. 

“ One might as well be a widow^ or an old maid, as to live 
as I do/’ said she. “ And I don’t see why yon devote your- 
self so.closely to these business matters. The other gentlemen 
in the country leave such drudgery to their stewards and law- 
yers.” 

“ He is well served who serves himself!” said Julian, with a 
shrug of the shoulders. 

“ At all events,” said Lady Augusta, “ 1 shall not go to 
Mrs. Conyngham’s alone. ” 

“ My dear,” retorted her husband, “ 1 particularly desire 
that you will. Because I am perforce compelled to be a re- 
cluse, it does not follow that your youth and beauty should 
be hidden away.” 

Lady Augusta oould not help smiling; the well-timed com- 
pliment was not without its effect. 

“ And,” added Julian, “ I really will try to accompany you 
to Lady Besard’s reception on Friday.” 

“ By the way,” said Lady Branchley, when the dessert was 
brought on, “ who were the people that came to the study this 
morning? Angevine was quite horrified at the idea of tramps 
being able to make their way into our private grounds without 
let or hinderance! He watched, to arrest their progress when 
they should come out again, but either they vanished into thin 
air, or escaped by some path of which Angevine knows noth- 
ing.” 

“ People!’ Julian looked blankly up from his pine-apple 
ice, with a face which, if possible, was paler than that which 
had just provoked the comments of his wife. 

“ An old woman,” said Lady Branchley, “ and a little 
boy. ” 

“ Helen,” whispered unconscious Dora, whose eyes were 
watchfully fixed upon the little golden-haired girl in her white 
dress and coral ornaments, “ you are eating too much of that 
ice!” 

“Please, Dodo,” coaxed the child, “can I have some of 
those white grapes?” 

“ Grapes, if you please,” said Dora, “ but no more ices.” 

“ Really,” said Lady Augusta, turning sharply around, “ I 
would like to know what charm Dora possesses over that child, 
to insure her obedience on all possible occasions. 1 only know 
that 1 can not make her mind me. 1 sometimes think, mam- 
ma,” turning to Lady Branchley, “ that we are not severe 
enough with her.” 

Dora’s eyes flashed— involuntarily she moved toward the 


224 : 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


child, and bit her lip to control the indignant words that rose 
hotly to her tongue. 

“ Yes, you may color up,^^ said. Lady Augusta, turning to 
look the young governess full in the face, “ but, after all, you 
are not the child^s mother!’’ 

Dora shrunk back without a word, and Lady Branchley 
made haste to say: 

“ My dear Augusta, we must remember that poor little Nell 
is motherless, indeed, and try to be lenient with her baby fail- 
ings. 1 am sure she is a most lovely and winning child, and 
she is certain, sooner or later, to outgrow these little inequali- 
ties of temper. Dora is right — there is no cure for them like 
love and patience. ” 

“ Augusta has never been so fond of Helen since her own 
boy was born,” said Lady Rosamond, lifting her large, un- 
shrinking eyes to her sister’s face. 

“ It is false!” cried Lady Augusta. 

“ It is true,^^ said Lady Rosamond. 

“ I shall begin to think,” said Lady Augusta, angrily, push- 
ing back her chair, ■ ‘ that the only way to break up these con- 
stant bickerings and dissensions is to send H^len away to 
school.” 

“ A child like that!” cried Lady Rosamond. 

“Yes, a child like that,” said Lady Augusta, spitefully. 

‘ ‘ If she is old enough to make mischief, she is old enough to 
learn.” 

Julian, wrapped in his own reflections, seemed to hear noth- 
ing of what was going on around him; he merely looked up in 
surprise as Lady Augusta swept past him out of the room. 
But Dora rose and came, pale and trembling, to the vacant 
seat beside Lady Branchley. 

“ Dear Lady Branchley,” faltered she, “ surely you would 
never send Helen from you?” 

“ Never,” said Lady Branchley, quietly. “ Do not be 
afraid, my love. As long as I live, little Nelly is safe from 
Augusta’s uncertain temper. Poor girl— it is as Rosamond 
says — since the birth of her own boy she has become strangely 
jealous of Helen. And I sometimes wonder what has become 
of the sweet, angelic Augusta, who used to be here as a girl. 
She is so altered, so domineering and arrogant. If I had my 
own way, Dora — ” 

“ Well, Lady Branchley?” The girl was leaning over Lady 
Branchley’s chair, her lips apart, her soft eyes beaming with 
unspeakable gratitude. 

“ I should like a daughter-in-law exactly like you, dear!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


225 


Dora dropped Lady Branchley^s hand and went, silently, 
and with drooping head, back to her chair beside little Helen. 

“ If only I dared to speak she thought. “ If only I 
dared to tell her all!^^ 

But the thought seemed to pass almost immediately out of 
the old lady’s mind; she turned to her son: 

“ But you did not tell me who those people were, Julian, 
that disturbed old Angevine’s equanimity so terribly.” 

“ Oh, those people? I had forgotten all about them,” an- 
swered Julian Branchley, carelessly. “ Beggars, of course! 
I must see and have that little shrubbery path closed up. It 
is very convenient for me, but we can’t have the place over- 
run with tramps. And now, mother, if you will excuse me,” 
rising from the table, “ I will go back to my study.” 

“Julian,” said Lady Branchley, anxiously, “are you not 
working too hard?” 

“Not in the least, mother,” said he, smiling. “Believe 
me, hard work agrees with me.” 

Five or ten minutes later little Helen came bounding across 
the lawn to where Dora was sitting in the cool freshness of 
the sunset. 

“ See, Dodo, see what I have found under the library win- 
dow,” said she, holding up something. “ A child’s straw 
hat, with a blue ribbon around it. Those beggar people 
must have dropped it, that came to Uncle Julian! It’s a boy’s 
hat. Dodo, not a girl’s hat. What shall I do with it? Shall 
1 give it to Ponto, to worry it into little bits?” 

Instinctively Dora reached out her hand to rescue the poor 
little battered hat, with its rag of faded blue ribbon, its notched 
edges, and the one or two threads of light-brown hair clinging 
to the loose straws in the lining, and a strange loving longing 
came into her heart. 

“ No, Nelly, no,” said she. “ Some little child has worn 
it. Do not let us throw it away; we will carry it down to the 
lodge-keeper’s little boy; it will do very well for him to weed 
onions with.” 

Oh, strange providences of God! stranger mysteries of the 
human heart. Was there no whispering voice to tell Theo- 
dora Branchley that her lost treasure was quietly sleeping 
within a stone’s-throw of her sore, aching heart? Was there 
no blood-red hand to beckon of coming danger? no intuition 
to bid her mother-heart beware? 

But the mother walked unconsciously up and down the 
winding path beside the Kiver Usk, leading Helen by the 
hand; and the child slept on in his deep, drugged oblivion. 


226 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


all unaware of the shadow of his coming doom. And J Lilian 
Branchley, like one of the grim, masked conspirators of the 
tragic stage, sat alone in his room, waiting for the velvet pall 
of the friendly dark to cover all. 

At nine o^ clock Julian Branchley looked out of the case- 
ment. It was a still and cloudy night, with neither moon nor 
stars to illumine the intense darkness. The crash of the car- 
riage wheels had just rolled away over the graveled drive; he 
knew that Lady Augusta and Lady Eosamond had gone to the 
charade party. He opened the door; the dog growled in low, 
deep accents, as if scenting danger in the air. 

“Come here. Prince; come here, good dog,^^ said Julian 
Branchley; and leading the shaggy monster into the study, he 
chained him to one of the carved oaken legs of the table. “ It 
would not do to risk any premature disturbances,^'’ he thought. 
He opened the desk-drawer, took out some notes and gold, and 
reached a long sealskin coat from a peg in the closet, as well 
as a traveling-cap, which almost concealed his face from view. 
The dog started up with a second low growl, as Julian stepped 
forward out of the shadows of the room into the circle of lamp- 
light. 

“ Quiet, old fellow, quiet!^^ said Julian, with a grim smile. 
“ Come, the disguise canT be so bad, if it imposes even upon 
you 

The dog lay down again, his ears drooping and his tail curled 
close to him, as if ashamed of the momentary indiscretion into 
which he had been betrayed, and J ulian Branchley, softly un- 
locking the door of the dressing-closet, went in. 

“ Confound it!'^ muttered he between his set teeth, “ where 
is the boy^s hat? 1 can find it nowhere. Never mind; I can 
easily wrap the shawl over his head.^’ 

Five minutes later a black and silent figure crept, like the 
slow-gliding shadows of the night itself, through the sinuous 
shrubbery paths, and along the dew-sprinkled highway, paus- 
ing ever and anon to rest with its burden, and to wipe the 
sweat from its brow. Julian Branchley never had been a 
muscular man, and the dead weight of a child of six years old 
is something considerable. At the nearest way-side inn he en- 
gaged a fly — studiously averting his face and speaking in a 
disguised voice — a fiy to take Iiim to the most contiguous rail- 
way station. 

“ Who was it, Jake?’^ said the innkeeper’s wife, when her 
liege lord and master returned from his fare. 

“ A shady chap, all wrapped with furs, and a little lad as 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 227 

was fast asleep/^ returned the man. “ Do you know, 
Polly — pausing with a draught of beer at his very lips. 

“ Well?^^ 

“ It looks to me uncommon like a case of kidnapping!’’ 
said the man. 

“You don’t say so!” 

“ f7/^-com-mon,” said Jake, nodding his head, and drain- 
ing the pewter measure to its last drop. “ But he paid me 
my fare without beating me down a ha’-penny — and anyhow, 
it ain’t no business o’ mine.” 

Julian Branchley was just lifting little Walter from the 
third-class carriage of the train in which he had traveled for 
four long hours, when the child woke up. 

The intense darkness, illuminated only by the glittering 
station lights, the swinging lanterns of the porters and the red 
signals that glowed like fiery eyes at the junctions, struck on 
his senses like a frightful dream; the heavy opiate which he 
had taken still hung over him like a vague cloud— and, brave 
little man though he ordinarily was, he uttered a cry of terri- 
fied bewilderment. 

“ Hush!” Julian Branchley’s hand was placed angrily over 
his mouth. “ Here — driver, where are you? Do you mean 
to be all night?” 

And Walter felt himself lifted into a close, moldy-smelling 
hack by the strong arm of the dark man with the spectacles 
and the two lines between his brows. He clung in an ecstasy 
of childish terror to J ulian’s shoulder. 

“ Where am I?” said he. 

“ You are here, with me. Don’t make such a fuss,” said 
J ulian Branchley, harshly. 

“ But where are we going?” 

“You are going to school,” said Julian. “ All children 
go to school.” 

“ 1 — I would rather stay at home with Joanna,” faltered 
Walter. 

“ That is nonsense,” said Julian, sharply. “ All boys must 
be educated. You’ll like it when you get there. ” 

“ Please, have I been asleep?” asked Walter, after a mo- 
mentary silence. 

“Yes.” 

“ Did-^did 1 have my supper first?” questioned Walter, 
induced thereto by sundry sensations of an aching void in the 
region of the stomach. 

“You shall have your supper when we get there,” said 
Julian, reflecting with some pangs of human compassion that 


328 


LOVE AT SABATOGA. 


it was nearly twelve hours since the poor little boy had had 
anything to eat. 

“ Is it far?’^ said Walter, wistfully. 

“ No, not very far.^^ 

Little Walter leaned his curly head against the mildewed 
lining of the ancient conveyance, and kept back his tears; not 
without difficulty, for Walter was tired and dizzy-brained, 
and he felt faint and frightened; and though he had an ex- 
alted idea that it was not manly to cry, he was but a little fel- 
low still, and human nature is human nature. He was very 
nearly asleep again, however, when the sudden stopping of the 
hack in some lonely place startled him once more into con- 
sciousness. 

“Jump out, my lad,^^ said Julian, speaking briskly. 
“ This is the place 

The driver had rung a bell in a high red-brick wall, and 
Walter stood leaning against Mr. Branchley, and staring up 
at the ink-black sky, until a little old woman came to the gate, 
carrying in one hand a lantern, which she shaded from the 
night wind with the other. To her J ulian spoke a word or 
two in a low voice; she nodded, with alacrity. 

“ Night nor day, it donT make much difference for us,-’^ 
said she. “ Please to walk in, sir; ITl speak to the pro- 
fessor!^^ 

And then there was another interval of chill, raw air, and 
darkness, and Walter found himself in a meanly furnished 
little room, where there was a ragged carpet and uncurtained 
windows, and a fat, bald-headed old man in a greasy palm- 
leaf dressing-gown, scraping and bowing like a Chinese man- 
darin. And the old woman brought a bowl of bread and milk, 
and Walter fell asleep once more in the very act of eating it. 

“ What shall we do with him for to-night, professor de- 
manded the old woman. 

“ Get him a pillow and a couple of blankets,"’ promptly re- 
sponded the professor, who was evidently in the habit of deal- 
ing promptly with emergencies. “ You can put him in the 
dormitories to-morrow?” 

And the early sunrise was weaving its golden meshes in the 
blossoming trees along the River Usk, when Julian Branchley 
crept, pale, jaded, and with livid features, back into his own 
study, and strove, by the aid of cold water and tow^els, and a 
glass of raw brandy, to remove the more evident traces of his 
night’s journey. It was fortunate for him that Lady Augusta 
did not come down-stairs, after the dissipation of the charade 
party, until noon. 


LOVE AT SAEATOGA. 


229 


“ Do you actually mean, Julian, said she, “ that you sat 
up all night reading and writing in that horrid den of yours?^^ 
“ I believe I did,^’ said Mr. Branchley, with a smile. 

“ One would easily know it from your face,^^ said the lady, 
with a little shudder. “ Your eyes are dim, and your skin is 
yellow, like that of a consumptive. I declare, Julian,^^ look- 
ing a little closer, “ you have actually grown ten years older 
since this time last night. I beg that for the future you will 
leave off these studious habits. 

“ Nonsense said Mr. Branchley, sharply. Somehow Lady 
Augusta's scrutiny irritated him. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 
“the hapbuey home." 


“ Wheee am I?" said little Walter Brande, as his name 
had been inscribed on the records of the “ Hapbury Home." 

“ You are at home," said Professor Proale, with a greasy 
smile. 

Walter looked solemnly up into the professor's small, black 
eyes. Poor little fellow! he had never known what the divine 
meaning of the word “ home " really was, but he had a vague 
idea of what it ought to be, and the Hapbury article did not 
come anywhere near his standard. 

“ No," said he, “ I am not." 

“ It ain't polite to contradict, young sir," said the profess- 
or. “ Here you are, and here your excellent guardian chooses 
that you shall remain, until you are old enough to be taught 
SOI ood and useful trade." 



hat is a trade?" said Walter. 


“ It ain't polite to ask questions, either," added the profess- 
or. “You will be told all that is necessary for you to know 
in due time. As for the rest, we won't mind. Dorcas," to a 
slovenly looking maid-servant who had shuffled in, carrying a 
pair of newly trimmed oil-lamps, “ take Walter Brande to the 
dormitories. Show him where to wash, and give him half of 
one of the towels!" 

Dorcas nodded good-humoredly toward the forlorn little 
boy, and he followed her across a wide and not particularly 
well-kept passage, up a wooden stairway, into a large dreary 
room, uncarpeted, and lighted by double rows of small win- 
dows. Beneath every window stood a coarse wooden bedstead, 
covered with patchwork quilts, and displaying linen that was 
neither fine nor clean; and each bedstead had its wash-table, 
its roller towel, and its one stained pine chair. 


230 


love at SARATOGA. 


“ Let me see/’ said Dorcas, looking around, “you are to 
sleep with Israel Newitt. He kicks, Israel does, and has bad 
dreams. The new boys always sleeps with Israel. Number 
Nine is your bed. ” 

“ Are there nine boys here?” asked Walter, in some appre- 
hension. 

“ Bless your heart,” said Dorcas, “ there’s nineteen, now 
you’ve come. Two in a bed, and Master Jenkinson, as is par- 
lor boarder down-stairs.” 

“ What is a parlor boarder?” demanded Walter, in amaze- 
ment. 

“ His people pays extra,” said Dorcas. “ He’s silly, and 
the other boys puts on him. But he’s good-natured. Now, 
little Brande, where’s your trunk?” 

“ I haven’t got any,” said Walter. 

“ Your bag, then? Come, I’m in a hurry.” 

“ I didn’t bring a bag.” 

“ Mercy on us,” said Dorcas, “ what was your friends think- 
ing about?” 

“ I haven’t got any friends,” remarked Walter, with 
gravity. 

“ Then the Lord have pity on you!” said Dorcas, tartly. 
“ Here’s your bed, anyhow — Number Nine, remember — and 
you’re to have half the towel and table. And if Israel Newitt 
tries any of his mischievous tricks on you just let me know.” 

Dorcas went away with a pile of soiled towels over her arm, 
and Walter sat down on the foot of his bed, an infant Robin- 
son Crusoe in the desert island of the world. Child though 
he was, he felt the atmosphere of dirt and disorder and intense 
forlornity that surrounded him — he comprehended in some 
degree the desolation of his future. 

“ I won’t stay here,” said Walter to himself. “I’ll run 
away.” 

A soft step stealing into the room here disturbed his unquiet 
meditations. He started to behold a tall, ungainly lad of 
eleven or so, who thrust a paper parcel into his pocket as he 
shuffled in. 

“ Halloo, Sneak!” said the boy, “ what are you hiding 
away here for?” 

“ I’m not hiding,” said Walter. 

“ Do you tell me I lie?” The lad dealt Walter a smart 
blow on the side of his face as he spoke; the child scrambled 
to his feet in an agony of rage and pain, but was too manly to 
cry. 

“ What is that for?” said he. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


231 


“ To teach you your place/' said the big lad. “ Get off 
my bed!" 

“It's mine, too," said Walter. 

The boy looked malevolently at him— he was pock-marked, 
with large whitish-blue eyes and a wide mouth like a shark. 

“ Look here, you," said he, “ you've got a thing or two to 
learn yet. Do you know who I am?" 

“ No," said Walter. 

“I'mNewitt." 

“Oh!" said Walter, solemnly. “ You are the boy that 
kicks?" 

“ You'll see whether I kick or not," said Newitt, grinning 
viciously, “ if you don’t mind your eye." 

Walter did not understand what this meant, but he looked 
hard at Master Israel Newitt, who had seated himself in the 
one chair, with his hands in his pockets. 

“ Pull off my shoes," said Israel. 

“ What for?" said Walter. 

“ Because I tell you to." 

Walter hesitated a moment or two, but there was that in the 
expression of the big boy's eye that made him conclude that 
obedience would be wise. He knelt down and began the ob- 
noxious task — but presently he drew back, his short upper lip 
unconsciously curling. 

“ They're dirty," said he. 

The next instant he found himself on his back, toppled over 
by a dexterous kick from Israel Newitt, planted directly in his 

“ Dirty, are they?" said Newitt. “ Pull 'em off, I say — 
and then take 'em down in the back-5^ard and black 'em." 

“I am not your servant," cried Walter, very red in the 
face, and with difficulty stifling his sobs. “ I will not obey 
you!" 

Half a dozen other boys had sauntered into the room, some 
with books, some with tops and marbles, and one, much en- 
vied by his companions, with a wire cage , containing two or 
three white mice. They were standing around, contemplating 
the scene with the idle curiosity of lookers-on in general, but 
nobody offered to interfere in the little stranger’s behalf. 

“Must I black his boots?" appealed Walter, turning pas- 
sionately to the group. 

“ Don't be an ass!" said one, indifferently. 

“ Of course you're Newitt's fag," said the boy with the 
white mice. 


232 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


While Newitt himself uttered a snort of triumphant dis- 
dain. 

‘‘ Boys/’ said he, “ take off your shoes. The new boy shall 
black ’em all around. It’ll take the stiffness out of his joints. 
And if you don’t look lively about it, White-face, I’ll flog you 
within an inch of your life. There!” 

Walter looked an instant at him, with quivering lip and 
cheeks blanched to a degree to merit the young ruffian’s nick- 
name. And then, dashing away, he flew down-stairs to where 
Professor Proale was serenely drinking his morning coffee, in 
the society of Mrs. Proale and two little girls, in long, braided 
pig-tails and flounced cambric frocks, while Dorcas waited on 
them. The boys breakfasted later, on fried mush, oatmeal, 
and weak tea. 

“Eh!” said the professor, turning around, with an unctu- 
ous morsel of fried ham on the end of his fork. “How! 
What’s all this about?” 

“ He says I’m to black his boots, sir,” said Walter, with 
quickly coming breath. “ And he struck me, and knocked 
me down.” 

“ This is very sad,” said the professor. “ Quarrels and dis- 
sensions already? I hope, Walter Brande, that you are not 
going to prove a fire-brand in our happy home!” 

“ Am I to black his boots?” demanded the child, passion- 
ately. 

“ Pride and obstinacy, pride and obstinacy,” groaned the 
professor. “ Go upstairs, my little lad. Strive to teach your- 
self the lesson of meekness and submission. And remember 
that it is against the rules to intrude on my privacy in this 
barbaric style. I shall feel it my duty to punish you severely 
the next time it occurs. ’ ’ 

Thus rebuffed Walter turned around and wently slowly up- 
stairs. Master Israel Newitt was lying on the bed kicking up 
his heels. 

“ Tattle-tale,” sneered he, “ much good you got by it, 
didn’t you? Sneak thief! Coward! Spy!” 

“ Stop calling me names,” said Walter, doggedly. 

“ I’ll stop when I’m ready, and not before,” said Israel. 
“ Do you see all them boots?” 

Walter was silent. 

“ Do you see ’em, I say?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Take ’em down-stairs and blacken ’em. Shine ’em up 
good, now. And when you’ve brought ’em all back and put 
’em on the fellows’ feet — ” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


233 


“1 will not do that!^^ cried the child, with swelling heart 
and eyes full of angry tears. 

‘‘ VVedl see whether you will or not,^’ said Israel Newitt, 
with a grin. “ When you've done that, I say. I'll take the 
nonsense out of you with a leather strap with an iron buckle 
on the end of it. There ain't no new boy bullies me without 
I knows the reason why." 

There was a dangerous lurid light in his eye that made poor 
little Walter Brande's heart stand still with instinctive terror. 
He ventured to steal an appealing glance at the other lads, 
but he received no answering look of pity or sympathy. Some 
of them were stolidly indiBerent; some appeared to regard 
the whole thing in the light of a most amusing entertainment. 
Evidently the new boy was looked upon as the natural prey 
of Israel Newitt in particular, and the rest in general. 

With a sinking heart Walter gathered up the shoes, and 
crept down-stairs. 

“ Dorcas," said he to the maid who was crossing the yard 
with a pail of water, “ where shall I go to clean these?" 

“Oh!" said Dorcas. “ They've put you at that already, 
have they? They always does it with the new boys. It's my 
belief as boys is worse than wild animals. Well, you’d better 
go out to the wood-shed!" 

The wood-shed was a long, low building skirting the road, 
where tools, kindling wood, harness, and packing-boxes were 
promiscuously piled together, and a stubby brush, with one or 
two half -empty bottles of blacking, were crammed under a 
bench. He looked first at the shoes, then at the blacking, 
utterly ignorant how to begin. 

J ust then the voice of some one whistling in the bushes that 
had grown up in the road, against the back of the shed, struck 
upon his ear. He climbed up to peep through the openings 
in the warped boards, and saw a gypsy-faced old man sitting 
on the grass, with a solder-pot and portable furnace on one 
side of him, and a handkerchief full of cold meat and bread 
on the other. 

“ What are you doing?" demanded Walter, in a whisper. 

The old man looked up at the sound of a human voice. 

“ I'm a-eating of my breakfast, young gentleman," he said, 
with a smile that lighted up his brown countenance not un- 
pleasantly. 

“ I should like some, too," said Walter. 

“ Come out here and get it, then," said the man. 

“ I don't know how," said the child, wistfully. 

The old man laid down his half-munched slice of bread. 


234 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


and, turning deliberately, twisted a loose board from its nails 
at the bottom of the partition. 

“ Cats and dogs can creep through them,’^ said he, ‘‘ and so 
can little boys. Lively now!^^ 

And in another minute Walter had struggled through, and 
emerged on the other side, all grass stains and damp mold. 

“ Who are you?^^ asked Walter, looking earnestly up into 
the man’s face as he eagerly devoured the cold meat and dry, 
sour bread. 

“ I’m a tinker,” said the old man. “ But folks calls me a 
- » 



“ What is a tramp?” said Walter. 

“ A man as jogs round the world as best he can, young 
master,” said the man. “ A man as begs when he can’t 
work; and works when he can’t beg.” 

“ Did you beg thisV^ said Walter, looking down at the 
broken victuals. 

“ I did, young master.” 

“ Where did you come from?” 

“ From Whichley, young master, ” 

“ And where are you going now?” 

“ D’ye see them woods?” pointing with a brown finger 
across a slope of meadows. “ Through them woods, as tire 
crow flies, to Birtwell.” 

Walter crept close to his side. “ Can 1 go with you?” said 
he. 

“ Nay, nay, young master,” protested the tramp, “ what 
would your friends say?” 

“ I have no friends,” said Walter. “ They brought me — a 
strange man brought me to the Hapbury Home las’ night. 
The boys are going to beat me with a strap. Please, please 
let me go, will you?” 

The old man looked dubiously at the child’s pallid, eager 
face. Human nature is human nature — and the itinerant 
tinker had not yet forgotten or forgiven the opprobrious 
epithets with which Professor Proale had banished him from 
his door half an hour or so ago. 

“ A lazy sneak — a prowling thief, eh!” thought the old 
tinker. “ The stocks too good for me — the dogs to be set on 
me? Well, it’s a long road as has no turning, and my turn- 
ing has come at last! And, my fine gentleman’ll never know 
how the little chap disappeared.” 

“ May 1?” persisted Walter, breathlessly. “ They are all 
such big boys, and I’m only a little fellow!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


235 


“ Where was you a-wantin^ to go?’^ slowly questioned the 
old man, feeling of his stubbly gray beard. 

“We came from Monmouthshire,^^ said the boy. “ Near 
the Usk Eiver. My aunt Joanna is there somewhere. 

“Monmouthshire,’^ repeated the old man, whose ideas, 
from long habit and the wandering nature of his life, were 
scarcely less vague than the child’s own. “ Bless your little 
heart, I know the place, and I’d as soon go on the tramp 
there as any place.” 

Walter scrambled to his feet. “ Come, then,” said he. 
“ Come, quick! The big boys will be looking for me to beat 
me. Oh! why don’t you hurry?” 

“ I knows of a many dodges as they’ll never be up to, young 
sir,” said the old man, slowly rising, and folding the remains 
of his meal into the handkerchief, which he bestowed in some 
nook or corner of his ragged garment. “ Don’t ye be a fret- 
tin’ of yourself. Come!” 

And crossing the road they took a narrow path which 
skirted a field of turnips, and lost itself in a dense copse of 
young birches and hazel bushes. Walter skipped ahead, laugh- 
ing and talking; the old tinker followed after a more leisurely 
fashion, smoking a black pipe, and meditating. At first the 
child was in a panic lest Israel Newitt or Professor Proale, 
with his greasy face and twinkling black eyes, should start out 
from every leafy thicket, or appear, ghost-like, at the termina- 
tion of every path. But as the distance gradually widened 
between himself and Hapbury Home his fears correspondingly 
quieted. 

“ Do you think they have missed me yet?” he asked, com- 
ing close to his new friend. 

The old man nodded. Walter softly took hold of his bat- 
tered coat-skirt, as if for protection. 

“ Will — will they find me, do you think?” he faltered. 

“ Not they, young sir,” said the old man, with a placid 
smile. “ Don’t you be afeard. Fll answer for that!”. 

And at noon they sat down together on the edge of a limpid 
stream, to eat what remained of their little store, and rest 
their weary limbs. 

“ Look here, young master,” said the tinker, “ it’s just 
possible as I may have got myself into a scrape.” 

“ How?” said Walter, who, with his worn shoes removed, 
was laving his tired little feet in the sun-warmed water, and 
carelessly flinging stones into the tide. 

“ Suppose as we don’t find your friends?” 

“ Ay, but we shall,” said Walter. “ Aunt Joanna was at 


236 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


a little farm-house not far from Monmouth. 1 should know 
the place again if 1 were to see it.'’^ 

“Yes; but suppose as she was gone.^^ 

Walter lifted his frank blue eyes to the old man^s face. 

“ 1 could stay with you, then,^’ said he. 

“ The Lord ha^ mercy on us!^^ ejaculated the tinker. 

“ And learn the tramp’s trade,” added Walter, cheerfully. 
“ I was to have been learned a trade if I stayed at Hapbury 
Home. ” 

“ Humph!” grunted the old man; “ it’s a mighty unsatis- 
f actor trade, though — for them as can do better. But come 
on, little master. It’s possible as you may think different 
about the tramping trade arter you’ve tried it a little.” 

But to the elastic spirits and ever-renewed strength of the 
boy it seemed like paradise, this gypsy sort of life in the open 
air, listening to improbable stories, sleeping under haystacks, 
and eating when and where they could. 

“ Oh, 1 am quite sure I should like to be a tramp!” said 
the little heir of Branchley, enthusiastically. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

MRS. PIDGE’S lodger. 

When Miss Joanna Beck had left Branchley Manor House, 
it had not been altogether with a friendly and satisfied feeling 
toward the gentleman with whom she had had so lengthy an 
interview. For an instant she stood in the leafy shadows of 
the shrubberies, glaring vindictively at the old house with its 
warm, age-mellowed tints, and its sides draped with glistening 
green ivy. A statue of Diana at her left seemed to lean for- 
ward on the tip of one slender marble foot, with uplifted bow 
and hunter’s horn — to her, in default of other audience. Miss 
Beck scornfully addressed herself. 

“ Does he take me for a fool?” said Miss Joanna. “ Fifty 
pounds and my passage paid? Humph!” 

No combination of letters or words could serve to convey 
the intense contempt of the last monosyllable, as Miss Joanna 
snorted it out. 

“I’ll bide my time,” said Miss Joanna, “and see which 
way the wind blows. I’ll keep my eye on the child, and on 
Mr. Julian Branchley, too. I haven^’t brought my pigs all 
the way from the State of Vermont to dispose of ’em in such 
a market as this. I’ll wait, and I’ll be patient!” 

She trudged back, slowly and with a feeling of despondency. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


237 


to the little cottage, just out of the village of Branchley-upou- 
Usk, where she had engaged lodgings at a most economical 
rate. Mrs. Pidge, the landlady, who was a dairy-woman upon 
a small scale, had just finished her churning, and was wash- 
ing the implements in the little stream that tinkled along at 
the foot of her garden. On a bench at the south end of the 
cottage glistened a row of silver-bright milk pans, a colony of 
bees hummed in a straw-thatched nook at the left, and a row 
of golden-hearted daffodils was just coming into bloom in the 
little border in the front yard, and all conveyed the idea of 
rustic peace and felicity. Ah! how little one can judge by 
outward appearances! Apparently Mrs. Pidge was an Eve in 
a modern Garden of Eden; but in reality Pidge drank, and 
his unlucky helpmate had all that she could possibly do to 
keep the wolf Poverty from her door; and an occasional lodger 
was to Mrs. Pidge an oasis in the desert of her financial diffi- 
culties. 

‘ ‘ The rooms is neat, and the terms is low, with the best of 
attendance, and meals cooked to order, if desired,^' said Mrs. 
Pidge, plaintively; “ and 1 does my best to give satisfaction.^^ 

8he was a mild-faced little woman, with watery, blue eyes, 
that looked as if they never left off weeping, colorless fiaxen 
hair, thinly streaked with threads of silver, and a limp cap 
border, that hung dejectedly over her face. 

“ Happy to see you safe back again, ma’am, I’m sure,” 
said Mrs. Pidge, courtesying her way into the front garden, 
and obsequiously opening the gate, “ and I hope you found 
your friends well, ma’am?” 

“ I didn’t find any friends,” remarked Miss Joanna, seat- 
ing herself in the little porch where the honeysuckles were 
just putting out their clusters of pale-pink buds. 

“No, ma’am?” Mrs. Pidge put her head inquiringly on 
one side. “ I’m sure as I thought and understood you to 
say — ” 

“ Friends ain’t so easy found in this world,” said the 
American spinster, shortly. 

“No, ma’am, to be sure not,” said Mrs, Pidge. “ As I’m 
sure me and Pidge has the best of reason to say. Will he be 
along pretty soon, ma’am?” blinking her arch eyes in the 
direction of the gate. 

“ Who?” said Joanna. 

“ The little gentleman, ma’am.” 

“ He won’t be along at all,” said Miss Joanna. “ I’ve dis- 
posed of him.” 

Mrs. Pidge started nervously. She was a woman who read 


238 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


the penny journals with an omniverous literary appetite, and 
dim visions of Wally tied up in a sack at the bottom of the 
Usk River, or buried under last year’s dead leaves, like the 
“ Babes in the Woods,” rose up in her mind. 

“ Though, of course,” she thought to herself, “ Miss Beck 
is quite respectable, and seemed to be fond of the child, in a 
way. Indeed!” she added, aloud. 

“Yes,” said Joanna. “And now, ma’am. I’ll take my 
tea, if there ain’t no objection.” 

And over the cup that cheers but not inebriates, Joanna 
made up her mind as to her future campaign. 

“ I’ll stay quietly where 1 am,” she thought, “ and watch 
a little, and ask a question now and then. And I’ll find out 
when Sir Basil is to be at home. He can’t stay away forever, 
that’s certain!” 

A few judicious questions elicited the fact that Mrs. Pidge 
knew one of the house-maids at the manor house. 

“Yes,” said the landlady, who was rather proud of her 
aristocratic acquaintances, “ me and she was in service to- 
gether at Monmouth, afore 1 married Pidge. Miss Mary Jane 
Moulton — a very genteel young person. And, as you say, 
ma’am, it’s lonesome here, and a bit o’ company would liven 
us up wonderful — and if you’ve no objection. Miss Beck, I’ll 
ask Mary Jane down to tea to-morrow.” 

“ I should like to meet her,” said Joanna, bluntly. 

“ And I’m sure, ma’am, she’d be proud to make your ac- 
quaintance,” said Mrs. Pidge; and immediately upon this she 
proceeded to take down and dust her best crockery, and col- 
lect together the materials for a currant cake. 

Miss Mary Jane Moulton arrived the next day — a pert, 
overdressed person, nearer forty than thirty, who patronized 
Mrs. Pidge and smelled incessantly at a gilt-stoppered bottle. 
Joanna Beck greeted her with the most gracious politeness of 
which she was capable. 

“ Happy to see you. Miss Moulton, 1 am sure,” said she, 
giving the genteel house-maid’s hand a decided American 
shake. 

“ The pleasure is all on my side, ma’am,” whimpered Mary 
Jane. 

“ I suppose you’ve a fine place up at the manor house,” re- 
marked Miss Joanna. 

“ Well, yes— as places go,” said Mary Jane Moulton. 
“ I’ve no partick’lar fault to find.” 

“ They’re grand gentry. I’m told,” said Joanna, insinuat- 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


239 


“ Ah, you may believe sighed the maid. “ Six meu- 

servants and each of us women sitting down to tea every even- 
ing in the servants^ hall!^^ 

“ Humph commented Miss Joanna. “ We donH have 
any such goings-on in my country. We^re all free and equal 
there!'' 

Mary Jane Moulton sighed her mild pity at this deplorable 
state of things. 

“ A large family?" questioned Joanna. 

“ Well, not so very," answered the Abigail, considering be- 
fore she answered. “ There's my lady, and Mr. Julian, and 
his lady, and little Master Basil, as was three years old yester- 
day, and Miss Helen, and Lady Rosamond Trente. And 
there's Mrs. Bracy, the governess, as is neither lady nor serv- 
ant — not but what my lady is most uncommon fond of her, 
and treats her for all the world like a daughter." 

“And the little boy?" suggested Miss Joanna, looking 
furtively up. 

“ Master Basil, do you mean?" 

“No — not him. The one Mr. Julian Branchley has 
adopted." 

Mary Jane Moulton stared. “ I don't know what you're 
talking about, ma'am," said she. “ There's no little boy 
been adopted, nor thought of, as I've heard on." 

“ But there is one visiting there." 

Mary Jane shook her head. 

“ No, Miss Beck," said she, “ there ain't." 

“ You're sure?" 

“ Quite sure." 

“ Humph!" said Joanna. “ Then I was misinformed, 
that's all." 

But, long after Mary Jane Moulton had taken her languid 
airs and her gilt-stoppered smelling-bottle back to the manor 
lioiise, Joanna sat in the little white-curtained window, think- 
ing. 

“ What has he done with the child?" she asked herself. 
“I never set much store by him, but still, he was only a 
child. And if there has been any foul play I'm not the wom- 
an to stand by in silence. No, I'U wait no longer: I've waited, 
mayhap, too long already. " 

A dim fear, too horrible to be placed in words, began to 
shape itself vaguely in her mind; a dreadful uneasiness took 
possession of her thoughts. She could neither rest quiet by 
day nor sleep at night — and on the third day she put on her 


240 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


shabby straw bonnet and coarse faded shawl and set resolute- 
ly forth. 

“ I’ll be at the bottom of this mystery, or I’ll know the 
reason why,” said Miss Joanna to herself. “ I’ll go to the 
manor house and ask this man, face to face, what he has done 
with the child.” 

But before Joanna had reached the great iron gates, with 
the little red-brick lodge nestling beside them, under its can- 
opy of budding boughs and trailing ivy leaves, she came, most 
unexpectedly upon the object of her search. The gates swung 
open, and Julian Branchley, on a thorough-bred gray horse, 
trotted out, followed at a respectful distance by a groom in 
plain livery, upon a second horse. 

Joanna Beck stood still by the side of the road, tall and 
gaunt, and erect as a human telegraph pole; the horse shied 
to one side as he came opposite her; Julian Branchley uttered 
an exclamation of angry impatience. 

“ In Heaven’s name, woman,” cried he, “ what are you 
standing there for, to imperil a man’s life and limb?” 

“I wanted to speak to ye, Mr. Branchley,” said Joanna, 
approaching, while Julian’s attention was riveted upon the 
rears and plunges of his steed. It was a brief contest, ending, 
as any one who knew Julian Branchley might have predicted, 
in the victory of the latter. 

“ Are you a beggar?” questioned he, sitting erect upon his 
horse, and fixing the cold light of his strange, near-sighted 
eyes upon the woman who still stood patiently by the road- 
side. “ If so, you run a very great risk by coming here- 
abouts. Our laws are stringent, and most rigidly enforced. 
If you have any business you will find my steward at the house 
between the hours of ten and two.” 

Joanna looked at him in great surprise. “ I have business, 
Mr. Branchley,” said she, “ but it is with you. I want to 
know what you have done with the boy?” 

“ The boy!” repeated Mr. Branchley. “ What boy?” 

“ With the boy I brought to your house and left in your 
care three nights ago,” said Joanna. 

“ My good woman, you must be dreaming, or mad!” ex- 
claimed Julian Branchley. “ Stand aside, and let me pass. 
My time is too valuable to be wasted in such fool’s play as 
this!” 

‘"What!” cried out Joanna, scarcely believing her own 
senses; “is it possible — no, it can’t be!— that you imQ for- 
gotten me?” 

Julian Branchley looked her full in the face. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


241 


“ 1 never saw you before in all my life/’ said he. 

“ "S^ou never gave me fifty pounds in money! You never 
promised to pay my passage back to America? You never let 
me out secretly through the shrubbery path, lest any of the 
servants should see me?” gasped Joanna, with a dull-red 
glow flashing into her sun-browned face. 

Julian broke into a short, contemptuous laugh. 

“ This really transcends everything,” said he. “ Simmes,” 
to the servant, “ why are you lingering behind thus? Do 
you not know that I am already behind my appointment? As 
for lyou, woman,” to Joanna, “ if 1 find you hanging; about 
the place after to-day, 1 shall not hesitate to commit you be- 
fore the county magistracy.” 

And shaking his horse’s rein lightly, he rode swiftly away, 
followed by his groom, who stared curiously at the tall, gaunt 
woman, as he clattered by at full speed. 

Joanna Beck drew a long breath, when the cloud of dust 
along the road-side alone remained of the two horsemen. 

“ So,” she muttered to herself, “he defied me! He has 
used me as a tool, and he would fain fling me aside; but he 
shall find that I am not quite so easily disposed of. Commit 
me, will he! Treat me like a washerwoman! Kot if 1 know 
it!” 

And Joanna Beck’s haggard face was not pleasant to look 
upon, as she slowly walked along the road in the direction of 
Mrs. Pidge’s cottage, with teeth firmly clinched and eyes 
gleaming with resentful fire. The birds sung their vesper 
songs in the thicket as she passed, the sunset glowed with 
radiant pillars of violet and gold; but the solitary pedestrian 
saw only the derisive scorn in Julian Branchley’s face, heard 
but the mocking sound of his laugh. 

“ He made a mistake in defying me,” she muttered to her- 
self. “ Yes — he made a mistake.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

‘‘where is my boy?” 

“ It’s that wretched Pidge again,” said Lady Branchley, 
piteously. “ I never saw any one so consistently unlucky be- 
fore! It’s the third time within a month that he has been 
taken up for disorderly drunkenness, and it has taken all his 
poor wife’s earnings to bail him out and pay the fines. And 
she is behind with the rent, and has been up here this morn- 
ing, while we were driving out, to beg me to come and see 
•her.” 


242 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“Of course/^ said Lady Augusta, indifferently, “it can 
only mean that she wants money. And, really, mamma, 1 do 
not see that she can expect you to do anything more for her 
than you have already done.^^ 

“ Yes, I know,^^ said gentle Lady Branchley. “ But if the 
man is really so ill — 

“ lie has brought it on himself,’’ said Lady Augusta, frigid- 
ly. “ One can hardly waste one’s pity on a wretched, demor- 
alized brute like that.” 

Lady Branchley sighed and hesitated. Lady Augusta’s 
theory might be — doubtless was — the correct one; but her 
gentle nature had always been attuned to mercy and compas- 
sion, and poor Mrs. Pidge’s sorrow and desolation aj)pealed to 
her sympathetic heart. 

Theodora Bracy was sitting at work in the window, with 
Helen playing at her side. She looked up just as this mo- 
ment. 

“ Shall 1 go there for you. Lady Branchley?” said she. “ 1 
should like the walk. And 1 can easily ascertain if there is 
really any occasion for your charity.” 

“ My dear, 1 should be grateful if you would,” cried Lady 
Branchley, with evident relief. “ I really think that some one 
ought to investigate the matter, and after our long drive of 
this morning, I feel hardly able to go out myself a second 
time. ’ ’ 

“ For my part,” said Lady Augusta, coldly, “1 see no occa- 
sion for any one to go!” 

“ May 1 go, too. Dodo?” pleaded Helen, eagerly. 

“ I am afraid it is too long a walk for you, Helen,” said 
Dora, looking fondly down upon the rosy, upturned face. 

Oh, pkase/* cried Helen, “grandmamma, say 1 am to 
go.” 

“ It is just as Dora decides,” said Lady Branchley, smiling, 
and Dora rang the bell. 

“ Send Mary Jane with Miss Helen’s hat and parasol,” said 
she. “ We are going for a walk.” 

And the distance between the manor house and Branchley- 
upon-Usk seemed all too short in the still, calm sweetness of 
the summer afternoon, as Dora walked along, with Helen now 
trotting at her side, with an infinity of childish questions — oh, 
how sweet a task it was to the mother’s lips to answer them — 
now skipping ahead for chance flowers, stray mosses, or an 
occasional shining pebble. She liked to be alone with Helen; 
she could talk to her then, shower tender kisses on her baby 
brow, and load her with caresses, as she never dared to do be- 


LOTE AT SARATOGA. 


243 


neath the cold, critical gaze of Lady Augusta, or even Lady 
Branchley^s mild, questioning glance. 

Mrs. Pidge welcomed them with a succession of courtesies, 
sniffs, and apologies. 

“ Yes, my lady,"’"' she groaned, “ leastways, miss, 1 mean, 
1 have had a deal of trouble. It do seem, my lady — 1 beg 
pardon, miss — as if there weren’t nothing but trouble in this 
life. And Pidge, he’s enough to try the temper of a saint, if 
saint 1 was, which I never pretended to be, my lady — miss, 1 
would say.” 

And then followed a recital in detail of Mrs. Pidge’s tribu- 
lations and Mr. Pidge’s various peccadilloes and shortcomings, 
d uring which Helen amused herself by gamboling across the 
floor with a pet kitten, and Dora listened with all the patience 
which she could command. 

“Very well, Mrs. Pidge,” she said, rising at length, “ 1 
will send down one of the servants in the morning with money 
for the quarter’s rent. But mind you make your husband 
understand that this is the last time that Lady Branchley will 
interfere in his behalf.” 

“ I’ll tell him, miss, sartin,” courtesied Mrs. Pidge. “ And 
I thank her ladyship kindly, and you, too, miss. If Pidge has 
got the soul of a mouse in that poor rum-sodden body of his, 
he won’t ax it again. Will the little lady accept a bunch of 
daffodils, miss, as can’t be no brighter than her own pretty 
hair, bless her heart? I’d be proud to pick ’em for her, if 
she wouldn’t scorn ’em.” 

Little Helen graciously accepts the humble floral offering, 
although no persuasion could induce her to let Mrs. Pidge kiss 
her. 

“ She is very chary of her caresses,” said Mrs. Bracy, smil- 
ing. “ Come, Nelly, we have a long walk before us, and the 
sun is nearly down. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Pidge. Either 
Johnson or Mr. Angevine will come down in the morning!” 

And, amid a profusion of tears and thanks, she took her 
leave. 

“ Ain’t she a beauty, though,” said Mrs. Pidge to herself, 
as she peered over the green paper blinds at her guest’s de- 
parting footstep, “ with all that lovely yellow hair coiled 
around and around her head, until you’d think there was no 
end to it, and them big dark eyes, with the long lashes, and 
the black silk dress that fits her as if she’d grown in it, and 
the string of black beads about that round white neck of hers! 
To my mind, there ain’t one of the grand ladies at the manor 
house as comes anywhere within reach of her; and she only 


244 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


miss’s governess, as Mary Jane tells me! Well, well, there 
ain’t no accountin’ for the Lord’s dispensations!” 

Helen Branchley had darted down one of the side paths of 
the cottage garden in search of the kitten, which had chal- 
lenged her to a second race on the very door -step, and Dora 
stood waiting for her, when there was a creaking sound of the 
hinges of the gate; it opened slowly, and a tall, gaunt woman, 
dressed in faded calico, with a close black bonnet, a discolored 
shawl, and a parasol with a broken top, came striding up the 
path. She paused suddenly as she came face to face with the 
fair apparition in the glistening black silk dress, and the curls 
of golden hair. 

” My God!” she cried out, starting back a pace or two, “ it 
is Theodora!” 

And Dora herself, turning as white as death, cried out: 

“ Joanna!” 

For a second they stood rooted to the ground, looking at 
one another, as if half believing that the whole incident was a 
dream; and then, springing forward, with quivering lip, eyes 
alight, and cheeks burning now with the inteijsest crimson, 
Dora seized her sister’s arm, crying out: 

“Joanna, where is he? My boy — my little Walter! Oh, 
tell me what you have done with him? Do not keep me longer 
in this frightful suspense! Where is he, I say? Where is 
he?” 

Joanna Beck’s face had turned to a dull, sickly pallor; she 
quailed before the lightning of Dora’s eyes, the wild pleading 
of her voice. 

“ How should I know?” she retorted. “ Let go of my 
arm, Theodora; 1 have done nothing with your boy.” 

Dora sunk down on a low, circular bench of unpainted wood 
which surrounded an apple-tree close beside them, bursting 
out into hysteric sobs and cries. Little Helen, who had run 
up at the sound of strange voices, flung her arms around the 
slender, bowed neck, and stamped her tiny foot angrily at 
Joanna. 

“Go away!” she vociferated. “How dare you sco*d my 
Dodo? I will make my uncle Julian put you in prison. ” 

Mrs. Pidge hurried out, much wondering what had hap- 
pened, and the general confusion was heightened by a deep 
guttural voice, crying out: 

“ Tinware to mend— tinware to me-e-e-nd! Please, ladies 
and gentlemen, if you have any old kettles or frying-pans, let 
me try my hand at ’em, and I’ll engage to give satisfaction. 
Candlesticks or gridirons— wash-boilers or saucepans— I don’t 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


345 


care what it is, or how it^s damaged, only give me a chance. 
Tinware to mend — tinware to me-e-e-nd!^"' 

It was a brown-faced old man with a traveling-pack upon 
his shoulder, and his keen dark eyes nearly hidden by the tat- 
tered brim of a most outlandish old straw hat, which was 
sewed on to the crown of another of quite different color and 
texture. And by the hand he led a little flaxen-haired child. 

Miss Joanna Beck turned around, and stood a second with 
blank, astounded eyes; and then, as if suddenly waking from 
a dream, she sprung forward, clutching little Walter by the 
arm. 

“ Why, here he is now!^^ screamed she. 

4: % % ^ 4c 

This is the house, David — 1 ^most know this is the 
house little W^alter had cried, shrilly, as they advanced 
within sight of the blossoming apple-trees and honeysuckle 
hedges which made the Pidge cottage a thing of beauty in the 
spring-time of the year. 

“ Are you sartin, my lad?’^ said the old tramp, looking 
earnestly up at the low, thatched roof and deep-set casements. 

“ Oh, yes, David, yes! Oh, I remember those bee-hives — 
and the old well at the back, with the funny little house built 
over it— this is the house I’ ^ cried out little Walter. “ And 
there is my aunt Joanna now, with her black bonnet, and the 
ugly shawl with the stripes in it. Oh, David, let us run!^^ 

But when Walter had heard the sound of strange voices in 
the garden, and seen the little group gathered under the ap- 
ple-tree, he shrunk back, with a sudden accession of childish 
bashfulness. 

“ David, said he, with deepening color and a quivering 
lower lip, “ I am afraid. 

“ Afraid, my bonnie laddie!’^ said the old man. “ And of 
what? Nay, take my hand, and weTl go and see what all this 
noise and confusion may mean.^^ 

And, with the noisy, chanting cry of his trade, old David 
the tramp pushed the garden gate open, and walked deliber- 
ately, and not without a certain majesty, into the midst of the 
little group. 

At Joanna^s exclamation, Dora lifted her head, and looked 
straight at the blue eyes and sweet, childish face of her own 
long-lost boy! In a second — in the twinkling of an eye, as it 
were — she recognized him. The years that had elapsed had 
not changed the frank, bright eye, nor darkened the sunny- 
brown hair. It was the same little Walter that had been 
rocked to sleep so many a time on her breast; the same dear 


246 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


one that she had carried in her arms, and wept over, and 
dreamed over, through the dreary hours of the terrible past. 
Heedless of Helenas clasping arms, she fell on her knees, with 
streaming eyes and outstretched hands. 

“ AValter’/^ cried she. “Wally! my boy — my treasure! 
Don^t you know me?^^ 

Walter looked at her a minute, with curiously contracted 
baby brows and trembling lips. 

“ 1 think, said he, slowly; “ I think — that you must be 
my mamma. 


CHAPTER XL. 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

Little Helen strove to push Walter away with all the 
strength of her tiny arms. 

“ Go away, little boy!^^ she cried out, with frowning brows, 
and yellow curls tangled over her forehead, “ you are making 
Dodo cry again. 

The young mother laughed hysterically through her stream- 
ing tears. 

“ Helen,^^ said she, “ can you not guess who this little boy 
is? Look into his eyes, darling; put your arms around his 
neck. He is your brother. Your own twin brother, Helen I’"’ 

“ I have got no brother,’^ said Helen, with serious eyes lifted 
to Dorans face. “ I have only a cousin, and his name is Basil 
Julian Branchley.^^ 

“You have a brother, Helen, said Dora, gently putting 
the child^s arms about Walter^s neck. “Kiss him, dearest. 
Love him as dearly as you can, to pay for all the years of love 
that he has lost!’^ 

The two children looked solemnly into each other^s eyes. 

“ I know where there is a white kitten,’^ said Helen. 

“ Where said Walter. 

“ Come and see,^^ said Helen. 

And, hand in hand, the little ones disappeared behind the 
pink cloud of drooping apple blossoms, while Dora, with her 
face still marble-pale, and her lip quivering, turned to Joanna. 

“ And now,^’ said she, “ tell me all. Where has he been 
these years? How dared you to take him away from me? 
Speak — quickly — for if ever human being rendered up an ac- 
count to another, you shall render up yours to me now!^’ 

“ It was no fault of mine,’" said Joanna, sullenly. “You 
promised to write, and you did not. You promised to send 
money, and the money never came!” 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


247 


“ 1 took a fever in the steerage/^ said Dora, wildly. “ For 
weeks and weeks 1 lay ill at Southampton, in a hospital. How 
could. I write then? And, just as soon as I was able to dic- 
tate, I sent you a letter telling all, and begging you to have a 
little patience! Oh, cruel, cruel Joanna, to disregard an ap- 
peal like that!^' 

“ I never received the letter,’^ said Joanna, doggedly. 

“ True — true!^^ cried Dora, recollecting the letter she had 
reclaimed from the post-office that dreadful night when first 
she realized that she was childless. “ But it needed not let- 
ters between you and me, Joanna; you should have knoivii 
that 1 could never abandon my little ones, happen what 
would. 

“ I. donT see why I should have known anything of the 
sort,^^ retorted the elder woman, sullenly. “ I never did put 
any faith in you nor your English husband. You were gone, 
and there were the children on my hands. That was all that 
I knew. And I was bound to look to myself. 

‘‘ And so you turned the poor little helpless innocents 
adrift on the world, to shift for themselves as best they 
might!’' cried Dora, springing up and pacing back and forth 
in the narrow garden path. “ Joanna Beck, if you live to be 
a hundred years old, God's curse will rest upon you for this!" 

“ You haven't outgrown your old habit of tragedy heroics," 
sneered Joanna. “ It's all very well to talk, but I did what 
seemed to me for the best." 

“ I think you have no heart!" said Dora, bitterly. “ But 
all these recriminations are useless now. The past is past, and 
nothing can undo it. Tell me all about it. Kemember that 
my child's life for the last four years has been a blank to me, 
and in mercy tell me what you know!" 

Joanna Beck recounted all the incidents of Walter's baby- 
life, during the years that had separated him from his motii- 
er's side, JDora listening the while with feverish eagerness. 

“ So when I heard as the detectives was inquiring around, 
and as Sir Basil Branchley himself had been to Saratoga," said 
Joanna, when the thread of her story had been brought up 
nearly to the present, “ 1 made up my mind to make what 
money was to be made off the business myself." 

“ Y^our natural bent of character," said Dora, contemptu- 
ously. "Goon." 

" 1 knew that these Cheswick people wanted to get rid of 
Walter," pursued Joanna, " so I went to 'em, and offered to 
take him for good and all off their hands. They consented. 


248 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


gladly enough, as you may guess — and I scraped together what 
money I could and brought the child to England."" 

“ Well?"" 

“ I inquired my way to Branchley. It wasn"t an easy busi- 
ness; but Fve knocked around the world considerably, and 
I"m not a woman to be discouraged by little things. I did it 
quietly, because I didn"t know how 1 was to be received. And 
when I got into the very presence of the tall, dark man, with 
the eyeglasses and the stoop in his shoulders — "" 

“ Mr. Julian Branchley — go on."" 

“ 1 discovered as Sir Basil was away from home. Well, 1 
told this Mr. Julian my story, I showed him the little lad. 
He pretended he didn"t believe me, but he did. 1 could see it 
in every line of his face — hear it in his voice. He made as if 
he thought the whole thing an imposture, but he said the 
child was a likely child enough, and he"d take him and pro- 
vide for him."" 

“ And you consented?"" 

“ Of course I consented,"" said Joanna, “ what else could I 
do? I had tramped around England with the child until the 
very soles were worn off my shoes, and I hadn"t money left to 
buy a loaf of bread or a draught of milk. I must do some- 
thing with the lad, and 1 knew as he"d be well enough off 
among his father "s kin. He gave me fifty pounds, the dark 
man did, and promised to pay my passage back to America. 
The fifty pounds 1 made sure of, but the passage is all moon- 
shine. I inquired around, in a quiet way afterward, and found 
the child had been disposed of. I met my lord out riding on 
a fine prancing horse, with a liveried groom, and asked him 
about the child. If you"ll believe me. Holly, he stared at me 
and asked me what child. In my very face and eyes, he made 
as if I was a total stranger, and he had never seen me in all 
his born days. 1 knew in a second that he was going to play 
a double game. It came over me, like a flash of lightning, 
like as he meant mischief. This was yesterday. What he 
had done with Walter I don"t know. He was not at the great 
house, that was certain."" 

“ Walter!"" Dora hurried toward the garden path, where 
the children"s golden heads were glancing to and fro like sun- 
beams. “ Walter! come here a minute."" 

Walter came, with Helen clinging to his hand. 

“ Tell me,"" said Dora, breathlessly, as she drew him close 
to her, and looked eagerly into his eyes, “ where have you 
been since Joanna left you at the manor house? What did 
your uncle do with you?"" 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


249 


“He gave me something to eat/^ said Walter, contractiog 
his brows in the effort to remember. “ And some wine.^^ 

“ Well?*" 

“ And then 1 went to sleep. And when 1 waked up again, 
we were getting out of the cars — and it was all pitch dark, 
except where the signal-lights were shining, and we got a car- 
riage and rode to the Hapbury Home."" 

“ Where was the Hapbury Home?"" questioned Dora. 
“And what was it?"" ' 

“ It was a great ugly house,"" said Walter, “ without any 
trees around it, and no carpet on the floor. And I was to 
learn a trade — and the boys wanted me to black their boots, 
and they were going to beat me with a strap."" 

Dora shuddered, and drew the little fellow closer to her side. 

“ I was to stay there until I was a man,"" said Walter. 
“ The gentleman said so."" 

“What gentleman, Walter?"" 

“ The gentleman that took me there,"" said W’alter, “with 
the spectacles. But when 1 peeped through the crack in the 
shed, where the boot-blacking stuff was, and saw David eating 
his breakfast, I called' out to him — and David pulled a board 
off the shed, and I crept through. So we ran away together, 
David and I. And we walked, and walked, and walked, un- 
til we came here. I knew it was somewhere in Monmouth, 
for I heard a man tell Aunt Joanna so — and I knew 1 could 
tell the house when 1 came to it; and I did."" 

“ lt"s all true, my lady,"" added David Tait, the itinerant 
tinker, who had risen from his seat by the garden gate, and 
drawn nearer during the child"s artless recital. “ I found him 
at the Hapbury Home — and a bad place that is, my lady. 
Not but the little lads has enough to eat and drink, such as it 
is — but old Proal, he thinks of nothing but the money, and 
they"s mortal cruel with each other, them lads, and they 
drops away with pestilence and fever, like leaves in a high 
wind. If I had a little lad of my own, my lady,"" old David 
added slowly, shaking his head, “ that there Hapbury Home 
is the last place I should like to see him in."" 

Dora had listened with pale cheeks, and eyes shining with 
troubled light. 

“ His own nephew!"" said she, incoherently. “ The heir of 
Branchley! His brother"s child! Oh, heavens! of what base 
material is Julian Branchley made! Come, Walter."" 

“ Where are we going, mamma?"" said the child, piteously. 
“ Can 1 not stay here and rest, and play with Helen?"" 

“ 1 forget,"" said Dora, laugliing hysterically, “lam always 


250 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


forgetting. Mrs. Pidge/^ to the landlady, who had been all 
eyes and ears, behind the white cotton curtains of the window, 
“ give the little boy something to eat and drink.. And the 
old man, too. And send into Branchley for a fly; I must 
drive back to the manor house at once. Joanna, you must 
accompany me.^^ 

“ I'd do a' most anything to put a spoke in Julian Branch- 
ley's wheel," said Miss Joanna Beck, with a quiet vindictive- 
ness that boded ilf for the gentleman in question. “ He's 
done his best to play me false, and I ain't one to forget old 
scores." 

And while little Walter and his strange comrade of travel 
were eating the food provided by Mrs. Pidge — it was only 
home-baked bread and cheese, with a pitcher of new milk, 
but it was better than any nectar or ambrosia to the famished 
wayfarers — Dora took little Helen up into her lap. 

“Helen," said she, “listen. You have always called me 
Dodo until now; you must learn to call me something else 
now. You must call me ‘ mamma.' " 

“ My mamma is dead," said the child. 

“ Darling, your mamma is not dead," whispered Dora, lay- 
ing her cheek against Helen's curls. “ She is here, holding 
you to her heart. She has been with you for years, watching 
over you, loving you, cherishing you. 1 am your mamma, 
Helen. Walter is your little brother. Call me by my new 
name, sweet — let me hear the blessed word. Say ‘"mamma,' 
Helen!" 

“ Mamma," said the child, reaching up to kiss her moth- 
er’s pale, agitated face. And then she ran away to look at a 
motherly old hen, with a brood of yellow, downy chickens, 
who just then came clucking around the corner of the house. 
To Dora the whole thing was a crisis in her life: but Helen 
accepted it as a matter of course. There is no such thing as 
the incredible to a child; it is only to grown people that 
doubts and misgivings come, like gloomy shadows, darkening 
all their lives. 

“ If you please, miss— -ma'am, I ought to say," said Mrs. 
Pidge, courtesying herself into view, “ the fly is a- waitin', 
with Jonas Deemes to drive — a most respectable young man, 
my lady, as is most careful with horses, and understands his 
business complete." 

And Joanna followed her sister into the carriage, where 
the children had already been placed, while old David, whom 
nothing could induce to enter a vehicle of any nature whatso- 
ever, trudged on behind, keeping well in sight of the fly; for 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


251 


Mr. Jonas Deemes's horses were not of the liveliest, and old 
David was a pedestrian of no mean ability. 


CHAPTER XLl. 

“ FORGET me!’’ 

“ I don’t see what can possibly detain Dora so long,” said 
Lady Augusta Branchley, sweeping across the drawing-room 
with an air of impatience. “ Do you know, mamma, 1 don’t 
think that it is at all a good plan for her to be wandering in 
and out of that wretched labyrinth of poor people’s cottages 
wdth Helen.” 

“ My dear,” said gentle Lady Branchley, “ what can pos- 
sibly be the harm?” 

“ Harm!” re-echoed Lady Augusta, petulantly twisting the 
jeweled bracelet around and around her white arm. “ It may 
be all very well for Mrs. Bracy, the governess, to expose her- 
self to typhus and malaria, and all sorts of horrible diseases, 
but the health of Sir Basil Branchley’s only child is quite an- 
other thing.” 

“ You are disturbing yourself unnecessarily, Augusta,” re- 
turned Lady Branchley, mildly. “ I really do not think that 
there is any danger. Mrs. Pidge’s cottage is extremely clean 
and neat, and I have always observed that Dora is possessed 
of unusual discretion and good sense. ” 

“ There it is again,” said Lady Augusta, with a sarcastic 
elevation of her black eyebrows. “ There will be no living in 
the house with this governess of Helen’s, if you are going to 
make such a favprite of her. She is already beginning to as- 
sume all the airs of a member of the family!” 

“You are quite mistaken,” said Lady Branchley, roused 
at last into energy; •“ Dora is what she always was, the gen- 
tlest and least assuming of persons.” 

Julian Branchley was sitting near the window, playing chess 
with Lady Rosamond Trente. He looked impatiently up. 

“ Typhus - malaria!” repeated he. “What nonsense! 
Augusta is always fancying all manner of horrors.” 

“ You wouldn’t like it for Basil, would you?” retorted 
Lady Augusta. 

“ I am not going to shut Basil up in a glass case, whatever 
other follies 1 may be guilty of,” said Julian, sharply. 

He had changed singularly since the night when he sat so 
diligent' at his studies while Lady Augusta was absent at the 
charade p^rty. His face, always sallow, had taken on a still 


252 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


paler and more colorless shade; his eyes were restless and 
furtive in their glance, turning instinctively toward the door 
at the slightest noise, as if he were in constant dread of some 
unwelcome apparition presenting itself on the threshold. His 
appetite was gone, and a constant fever seemed to smolder in 
his veins; his temper had grown irritable and uncertain. 
Lady Branchley had even whispered to her daughter-in-law 
her opinion that Julian was not well. 

“ I really think he had better consult a physician, my 
dear,^^ said Lady Branchley. 

“ Oh, it"s nothing,^ ^ said Lady Augusta, carelessly. “ Only 
one of his moods. It will soon pass away. 

Lady Rosamond^s finger was just laid on the imperial crown 
of her carved ivory king, to remove him from threatened dan- 
ger, when her sister uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

“ Oh, look, Julian cried she; “ they are coming back in 
a fly. Oh, 1 hope nothing has happened 

“What should have happened said Julian. “ The walk 
has been too long for Helen, that is all; and Mrs. Bracy has 
very sensibly called a fly to come back.^^ 

“ There are two children in the fly,^^ said Lady Augusta, 
who had risen and advanced closer to the casement. “ They 
have whirled around the corner of the house; they will be here 
presently. 

“ And 1 hope we shall have a little peace now,^^ said Julian, 
impatiently. “It is quite impossible to play chess, or follow 
any other intellectual occupation with all this buzz and 
clamor in one^s ears.^^ 

Lady Augusta shrugged her shoulders and turned away; the 
game of chess went on placidly once more, and there was a 
moment's hush. 

A moment's only; for before Lady Rosamond had decided 
in which direction to move her king, the drawing-room door 
opened, and Julian Branchley started back with a low, half- 
suppressed cry. 

It had come at last — the hovering, unseen danger, the ap- 
parition he had so vaguely dreaded. 

Theodora Bracy came, white and calm, into the room, lead- 
ing a little yellow-tressed child in either hand, while Miss 
Joanna followed, with the erect presence and grim composure 
of a female grenadier, and old Havid, the tramp, lingered re- 
spectfully in the background. She led the tiny pair direct to 
Lady Branchley, who had risen from her chair and advanced 
a pace or two to meet them. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 253 

“ Dora/^ said she, in amazement, ‘‘ why are you so pale? 
Who is this strange child? Has anything happened ?^^ 

“ Much has happened,’^ said Dora, in a low, distinct voice. 
“ Lady Branchley, there are your son BasiBs children — and 
mine! I am BasiBs American wife! This boy,^^ placing Wal- 
ter's hand in that of the old lady, “ is his son, the heir of 
Branchley. To your care I commit him!^^ 

“ Dora!^^ gasped the old lady, in amazement. 

“Yes, 1 know it seems like a wild, incredible tale,” she 
burst out, “ but it is God^s own truth! 1 have witnesses here; 
I can prove it, even if other witnesses than the boy^s own 
face were needed. Look at him. Lady Branchley! Bead his 
eyes and forehead, and learn therein, written with God^s 
hand, the story of his parentage!” 

“It is BasiBs child!” cried Lady Branchley, beginning to 
tremble all over like a leaf. “ Julian! Julian, look here!” 

But Julian had risen and stood livid and pale in the center 
of the room. 

“It is a lie!” said he, hoarsely. “ A made-up scheme to 
deprive my boy of his inheritance. ” 

“ I know that gentleman,” said Walter, looking boldly up 
in his face. “ It is he that took me to the Hapbury Home.” 

“ BasiBs child,” solemnly repeated Dora; “ the heir of 
Branchley!” 

And she told the story, word for word, to Lady Branchley, 
of how the little boy had been lost and found — of what had 
become of him during all that dreary interval during which 
he had been hidden from her sight — of the curious complica- 
tion of circumstances by which he had come back, as it were, 
to her very arms. 

“As for me,” she added, with a long sigh, “my task is 
completed at last, now that I have restored Sir Basil Branch- 
ley’s son to his heritage. I came here a broken-hearted wom- 
an, to toil out the remainder of my life — to be where I could 
sometimes see or hear something of my child — the one daugh- 
ter who had already forgotten that she had ever had a moth- 
er. But Heaven has been very good to me, and the time has 
come for me to speak!” 

Lady Augusta Branchley, who had listened with changing 
color, now came impetuously forward, with glittering eyes 
and imposing presence. 

“ Do you think we are going to believe all this sensational 
tale?” she demanded, lifting up her white hand as if she 
would strike the smaller, slighter woman clown. 

“ I do not ask you to believe it on my own unsupported 


2oi 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


testimony/^ said she. “ You have heard Joanna Beckys re- 
cital, and the story of David Tait.^^ 

“ Your sister — and your hireling. Disinterested witnesses, 
truly,^^ sneered Lady Augusta. 

“ And,^^ calmly went on Dora, “ I can show you my mar- 
riage certificate^ and the baptismal registers of these children. 
Is there any other evidence needed 

“ It is false — false as hell itself thundered Julian Branch- 
ley, advancing at last. “ Are the future prospects of my boy 
to be endangered by such a ridiculous fable as this 9 You are 
an impostor, woman, and — 

“ I am your brother’s wife!” said Dora, quietly. “ Un- 
worthy — and unbeloved, it is true, but still his wife. And 
there are his children!” 

“ If you are really his wife — that miserable, low-born ad- 
venturess of whom we have heard such unfavorable accounts,” 
broke in Lady Augusta, “ why have you been spying here, 
under an assumed identity? Why did not you claim the rank 
and position to which you pretend that you are entitled?” 

“ Why should I claim it?” asked Dora, turning upon her 
with a sudden bitterness. “ Could I bring back my husband’s 
forfeited love? Could I take my old place in his affections? 
To me, strange as you may deem it, the empty name of 
Branchley is of little worth. And if you will recall all the 
circumstances. Lady Augusta, you will remember that it was 
not of my own free will that I came here. When Miss 
Jocelyn sent me to Lady Osprey, I was entirely unaware of 
her connection with the family at Branchley Manor House. 
When Lady Osprey died, it was through no machinations of 
mine that Lady Rosamond Trente came here to live, and I as 
her governess and companion. 1 have walked blindfold 
through the world, and the finger of Fate has led me on, in 
spite of myself. ” 

“ I wish you had been dead and buried,” cried out Lady 
Augusta, passionately, “ before you ever crossed the threshold 
of this house! Base impostor that you are!” 

“ Augusta! Augusta!” pleaded Lady Rosamond, who had 
advanced and taken Theodora’s cold hand in hers. 

“ I am speaking the truth,” flashed out Lady Augusta. 
“ She has warmed her serpent coils in the sunshine of our 
kindness all these years; she knew that Basil’s wife had run 
away, and that Basil’s heir was dead — and out of this slender 
framework of facts she has constructed an edifice of falsehood 
by which she vainly hopes to make her own fortune. It is a 
daring scheme, Mrs. Bracy, but it will hardly bear the day- 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


255 


light. Mamma/^ turning angrily to Lady Branchley, “ 1 
think she should be delivered over to the police at once. 
Julian/^ clutching at her husband's arm, “ why do you stand 
calmly there and listen to such a monstrous delusion as this?" 

Little Walter clung close to his grandmother's arm; the 
beautiful dark lady, with her passionate words and wild gest- 
ures, filled him with a vague terror; Helen stood calmly look- 
ing up into Lady Augusta’s face; to her the whole scene was 
nothing more than a pleasurable excitement. But Lady 
Branchley herself interrupted her. 

“ Augusta," said she, “ you forget that you and Julian are 
here only as the guests of my son Basil. I entertain no sort 
of doubt that Theodora's story is true in all its particulars, 
and 1 only wonder that, in all those years, no gleam of the 
actual truth has dawned upon my mind. " 

“ Julian, Julian!" pleaded Lady Augusta, seizing her hus- 
band's arm and dragging him forward, “ why don't you 
speak? Will you stand by like a whipped hound and see your 
boy's rights wrested away from him? Julian, why don't you 
interfere?" 

Julian Branchley turned his haggard face upon his wife with 
a look which she never, to her dying day, forgot. 

“ Because it is of no use," said he, doggedly. “ Because 
the child is Basil's child; because the woman is his wife; stop 
shrieking, Augusta — there is no use in trying to fight single- 
handed against Destiny." 

Theodora turned to him with a quick, sudden gesture of 
condemnation. 

“You knew that the child was Basil's son when you stole 
away with him, in the dead of night, to try and hide him from 
me!" she cried. 

“ I knew it," said Julian, sullenly. “ You need not shrink 
away from me, mother," to Lady Branchley, who had been 
unable to conceal an involuntary movement of horror. “ I 
meant the child no harm! If I had, what could have been 
easier than to dispose of him altogether?" 

“ Julian," said Lady Branchley, “ you are my son. I for- 
bear, therefore, from any comment upon your strange and 
unaccountable behavior. But the same roof can no longer 
shelter you and me. " 

“Mamma!" screamed Ijady Augusta, “would you turn 
us out-of-doors?” 

“ Julian has his own income," said Lady Branchley. “ As 
for a home, he and you are welcome to reside at Sedge Court 
during my life-time; but, 1 repeat that 1 do not judge it ex- 


256 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


pedient that Basil^s child shall dwell under the same roof with 
you. When he himself returns, he can decide to suit him- 
self. Theodora — to the young mother, who had stood 
calmly listening to the decree — “ I will ring for Dawson to 
take this child up to the eastern nursery. He will remain 
there until you select apartments as you deem best. And re- 
member, nothing in this house can be too good for BasiFs 
heir.^^ 

But Theodora drew back, pale and cold, with glittering 
eyes, and small, white teeth, closed firmly over her lower lip. 

“ No/’ said she; “ I have wrought out my destiny in bring- 
ing the child back to his father^s house. Here my mission 
ends.^^ 

“ Dora, you surely will not leave him now, when he is new- 
ly restored to your arms!’^ pleaded Lady Branchley. 

“ It is better that I should calmly uttered the girl. 

“You can not be in earnest, entreated Lady Branchley. 
“ My dear girl, stop and reflect a little before you decide. 

“And have I not reflected?’^ burst out Dora. “ Do you 
think, all these years, that 1 have not asked myself this ques- 
tion and answered it, a score of times over? You have spoken 
of me as if I were dead and buried — you have sneered at my 
deficiencies, laughed at my lowly birth, wondered at the in- 
fatuation which could ever have induced your son to ally his 
fate with mine. And there has not been a word you have 
uttered but my own heart has bidden it amen!^^ 

But, Dora — ” 

“ Stop a moment, please. Lady Branchley,^' said the girl. 
“ Hear me to the end. I know — none better — what I am, 
and what Sir Basil Branchley’s wife should have been. But, 
in spite of this, there is no power in all England that would 
have kept me from claiming my legal place in his heart and 
home, if he loved me. He did love me once. Lady Branchley, 
as dearly as if 1 had been a crowned princess. And, God help 
me, it was through my own mad folly that I lost that love. 
Henceforward my life must be one of penance and self-denial. 
In your care I am content to leave Sir Basil Branchley's chil- 
dren, until they can be placed in his own keeping. 

“ And you?’^ cried Lady Branchley, moved by a vague ter- 
ror which she herself only half comprehended. 

“ Forget me,^" said Dora, softly, stooping to kiss the old 
lady's white withered hand. “ Let me pass out of your sweet 
sunshiny world like a shadow of the outer darkness, and be as 
if I had never existed!" 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 257 

The tears streamed down Lady Branchley’s cheeks; she 
drew Dora close to her. 

“ Dora!^^ she cried, “stay! Oh, my daughter— my son’s 
wife, the mother of his children, do not leave me thus. I 
have learned to love you for your own sake — 1 will love you 
still more dearly for Basil’s. Oh, my daughter, stay!” 

But even while she spoke, the girl disengaged herself from 
her tender clasp, and was gone. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

A CASE OF BRAIN FEVER. 

“ Do you really think it is going to be a serious affair. Doc- 
tor Anneslie?” said Major Trixham, anxiously. 

He was sitting in one of the private parlors of the Royal 
George Hotel at Southampton, drinking deep-colored port 
wine and peeling walnuts. For people must eat and drink, 
under any and all circumstances, and it is surprising how phil- 
osophically the best of us can bear the troubles of our friends. 

It was early in October, and the sea-coal fire that blazed in 
the grate was by no means unacceptable. The ruby curtains 
were drawn over the inky blackness of the autumn night 
without — the candles shone brightly in their polished brass 
sconces, and the dessert was neatly set out on a cloth of spot- 
less damask, for Major Trixham was one of those stately pres- 
enced men at whose advent hotel-keepers bestir themselves, 
and waiters get out their best. 

Major Trixham was peeling walnuts and sipping port wine, 
with the soles of his slippers turned comfortably toward the 
fire, and an open box of Flor del Furnas on the table beyond. 
Dr. Anneslie was walking up and down the room, twirling his 
watch-chain thoughtfully. 

“ Going to be,” echoed he, turning short around upon his 
interlocutor; “it is a serious case. Brain fever is no joke, 
Trixham, under the most favorable circumstances; but when 
it comes short and sharp, like this — ” 

“ Deuced unlucky,” said Major Trixham, with a sympa- 
thetic groan. “ But 1 don’t think Branchley has been quite 
up to the mark this long time.” 

“ Has he been troubled or annoyed by anything lately? In 
his mind, I mean?” ^abruptly questioned Dr. Anneslie, stop- 
ping short ill his promenade, and leaning his arm on the man- 
tel, as he looked intently down into the major’s sunburned, 
English face. 

9 


258 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ 1 believe you/’ nodded Major Trixham, carelessly flinging 
a shell into the fire. “ What wizards you physicians are, to 
be sure. Yes, he has. His wife ran away from him four or 
five years ago, and took the heir with her, and everybody sup- 
posed they were dead and out of the way, when all of a sud- 
den, three or four weeks ago, just as we were beginning to 
enjoy ourselves, there came a letter to Branchley that they 
had come back— the wife and child. Of course it was a con- 
foundedly startling thing. I never saw a fellow so completely 
thrown off diis balance. And he wouldn’t wait one second be- 
fore starting off, although it wasn’t the day for the first-class 
diligence to start, and we had the deuce and all of a time 
catching the English mail — and we’ve traveled night and day 
ever since. It’s enough to kill any man. ” 

“ You have telegraphed to his family?” 

Major Trixham nodded. 

“ This afternoon,” said he, “ before 1 sent for you. Poor 
fellow! it seems only yesterday that his father was killed in 
the hunting field, and he succeeded to the baronetcy. It’s" 
lucky about the child turning up at the eleventh hour, for 
although I make it a Christian rule to hate no man, 1 must 
confess that I should have been vexed to see that confounded 
cur of a Julian Branchley step into his brother’s shoes.” 

“ Y^es— exactly,” said Dr. Anneslie, who had apparently 
been absorbed in his own meditations during the latter portion 
of this monologue. “ Y^'ou will remain with Branchley, of 
course.” 

“ Oh,..of course,” sighed the major. “ I was due on the 
12th at Compton Court, but I’m not the fellow to leave a 
friend in a pinch like this. I’ll see him through it, ond way or 
the other,^ poor lad! At least until his friends come.” 

“ I will send you up a skillful and experienced nurse whom 
I can recommend,” said Dr. Anneslie, “ to-night. He needs 
scientific care. And I’ll be here again early in the morn- 
ing.” 

“ Do,” said Major Trixham, with a yawn. “You’re not 
going? I wish 1 could persuade you to try a little of this old 
port. It’s not bad, for a hotel, 1 assure you.” 

Dr. Anneslie shook his head. “ Old port and hard-working 
doctors don’t agree,” said he, with a grim smile. “ Good- 
evening. Mrs. Bracy will probably be here not far from ten 
o’clock.” 

“ Is she one of the Mrs. Gamp style of nurses?” lazily de- 
manded Trixham. “ Like a feather-bed tied in the middle? 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 259 

With a red nose and a weakness for flat bottles? Because^ if 
she is — 

Dr. Anneslie laughed outright this time. “ You will see/^ 
said he — and was gone. 

He jumped into his brougham, spoke a hurried word or two 
to the man, and was whirled away to a humble red -brick lodg- 
ing-house in one of the quieter and remoter parts of the town. 

Dora Bracy was sitting ail alone at her needle- work, by the 
light of one lamp, while the least possible of fires smoldered 
in the little grate. She was dressed in a black gown, with a 
thread of white visible at her throat and wrists, and her golden 
hair was fastened plainly back under a stiff little “ Sister of 
Charity cap, but the bloom on her cheeks was like a Bro- 
vengal rose, and she was more exquisitely, spiritually beautiful 
than ever she had been before. 

At the familiar rat-tat of the doctor’s knock, she looked 
radiantly up. 

“ 1 have felt it all day, doctor,” said she. 

“Felt what?” he demanded, shaking the rain-drops from 
his shaggy overcoat as he stood on the threshold. 

“ That I should be wanted.” 

“ You have prophetic moods, then?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“ Your premonitions are correct this time,” said Dr. Aniies- 
lie. “ You are needed very much indeed.” 

Dora rose with alacrity and -began her simple preparations, 
packing a few absolute necessaries into a bag, and drawing a 
black scoop-shaped bonnet over her little muslin cap. 

“ Is it the little child inlladdon’s Lane?” said she, “ or old 
Mrs. Wirtley’s?” 

“ Neither,” said Dr. Anneslie, succinctly. “It is a sick 
gentleman at the Koyal George. ” 

Dora paused suddenly in her preparations. 

“ Ah, doctor,” she faltered, “ 1 — 1 hardly like to go to a 
case like that.” 

“ Why not?” he demanded. 

“ 1 have only dealt with women and children,” pleaded 
Dora. “ I dare not take the responsibility.” 

“ You are by all odds the, best nurse on my staff,” said Dr. 
Anneslie. “ As for the responsibility, I take it myself. This 
is a poor young Englishman who has been taken sick, jour- 
neying from the east. ” 

“ Poor!” repeated Dora, softly. “ Oh, then, I ought not 
to hesitate.” 

“ Not poor as regards this world’s goods,” said Dr. Annes- 


260 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


lie. “ I believe he’s a rich man — but he’s quite alone, with 
the exception of an old army friend, who knows no more of 
the minutiae of sick-nursing than he does of Chaldee. And I 
fear this disorder may take a grave turn, unless we give the 
poor fellow every advantage of care and watching. He has 
friends, but they are in a remote part of England, and can 
not arrive till to-morrow night at the earliest. And in any 
event, he needs a conscientious and painstaking nurse.” 

“ I will go,” said Dora, quietly. 

Dr. Aiiueslie scribbled a few words upon a card. 

“ Here is the address,” said he. “ His valet will give you 
all the necessary details as to the medicines and things for to- 
night, and 1 will see you to-morrow morning. He seems a 
faithful and attached fellow enough, but he has had no expe- 
rience in sickness, and does not speak English with sufficient 
facility to render him of any use.” 

And Dr. Anneslie had rattled down-stairs, and sprung once 
more into his brougham, before Dora advanced to the flicker- 
ing light of the lamp to read the hurriedly scrawled address: 

“ Sir Basil Branchley, 

“ Room Royal George Hotel, Pembrolce Street.’^ 

“Sir Basil Branchley!” The card dropped from Dora’s 
paralyzed fingers; she grew deathly pale, while every drop of 
blood in her veins seemed to stand still for a second, and then 
leap madly through her pulses with dizzy speed. Her — hus- 
band! 

Had she not felt it, hanging like a mysterious shadow over 
her heart all the day? Had his presence not haunted her dur- 
ing the restless watches of the night? Had there not been a 
strange foreboding consciousness ^thrilling all her frame that 
the dial of her life was standing still before some great solemn 
crisis? 

And now it had come. 

“I can not— 1 can not!” she wailed aloud, as she stood 
wringing her hands, in the solitude of her own room. “I 
will go to Doctor Anneslie and tell him he must send some 
one else.” 

And then, like an overwhelming wave of memory, came 
back to her the solemn purpose to which she had dedicated the 
remainder of her poor, wretched life. “ To nurse the sick 
and solitary, as a thank offering for God’s mercy in restoring 
my child to his home and his rights.” She had written it 
down in the fly-leaf of her little Bible. And now was she to 
quail because in this, the first year of her trial, the juggernaut 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


261 


car of circumstance jarred against her own weak will? “ For 
better and for worse— in sickness and in health!"^ Alas! the 
“ better had ebbed away— the “ worse "" had settled darkly 
down upoD her life. “ Health was over— and “ sickness 
had come in good truth. 

‘‘ In so far as that, I may at least be true to my marriage 
vows,^^ she thought — and once more arranging the yellow coils 
of hair beneath thai Sister of Charity cap, she covered up the 
fire, extinguisl^ed the lamp, and, pausing only, to leave the 
key of the door with her next-room neighbor, a pale, drudging 
maker of vests, went quietly out into the dim and rainy dusk 
of the dismal Southampton streets. 

Quite alone she hurried along, past the yawning doors of 
dismal tenement-houses, the garish glitter of gin-palaces, and 
gaudy illuminated dens of vice. But wherever she went, the 
rude seamen and quarrelsome loungers along the streets 
stepped respectfully aside to let the black-draped figure pass; 
for the hospital nurse's uniform was known through all South- 
ampton, and respected with a sort of superstitious reverence 
wherever it was seen. 

The clocks were striking nine, when she presented herself 
before the astounded eyes of Major Trixham, who was still 
sipping the deep-red port wine and yawning over the evening 
papers in the little parlor with the cheerful grate fire and 
close-drawn curtains. 

Involuntarily the major started up with a bow. 

“ 1 beg your pardon,'"’ said he, as if fairly dazzled by the 
radiant eyes and the hair like spun gold, which the muslin cap 
only j)artially covered. “I — 1 — " 

“1 am the hospital nurse," said Dora, quietly; ‘‘Mrs. 
Bracy. Will you be good enough to conduct me to the sick 
gentleman's room? It seems that his servant has received no 
orders from Doctor Anneslie to admit any one, and has re- 
ferred me to you." 

“Certainly, certainly," said the major, with alacrity. 
“ Victor is a fool — but he’s a faithful fool, too. This way, 
Mrs. Bracy, if you please." 

And he remembered with a spasmodic contraction of the 
risible muscles, the idea he had figured to himself, of a nurse 
patterned after the “ Mrs. Gamp " model, husky of voice, 
scarlet of nose, and. voluminous as to figure. 

“ Do not allow yourself to be alarmed, madame, if he is a 
little flighty," said he, courteously. “ Doctor Anneslie tells 
me it is often the case in fevers of this type, and he has known 


202 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


no one since six o^clock. Stand aside, Victor, this is the 
nurse. Pray walk in, Mrs. BracyT^ 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ I KNEW YOU WOULD COME.^^ 

A LARGE airy room, plentifully lighted by wax candles, 
with a cheerful fire burning in the grate, dark-brown hangings 
of some gorgeous Japanese material, shot with gold thread, at 
all the windows, and a tall carved Elizabethan bedstead, fes- 
tooned and canopied with the same gold-gleaming material, 
opposite the door; a face, whiter than the white pillows against 
which it lay, and hands folded like those of a dead man upon 
the silken counterpane. These were the impressions which 
printed themselves on Theodora’s eyes, as she followed Major 
Trixham into the sick man’s apartment. A soft, subtle odor 
of eau-de-Cologne pervaded the room, and Victor, the French 
valet de chambre, was moving noiselessly about in slippered 
feet. 

Theodora walked up to the bedside, and stood there for a 
moment, gazing at the haggard face, with its Saxon curls 
pushed back and drenched with ice-water — stood there with a 
face so calm that no casual observer would have conjectured 
the wild tumult of emotions within her breast. And almost 
in the same moment, the glittering eyes opened and fell upon 
her presence. 

Something like a sigh of relief fiuttered across his lips; he 
closed his eyes again. 

“ Dora!” said he, drowsily. “ I knew you would come!” 

She looked around with wild, startled eyes and hands 
clasped tightly together. But Major Trixham only smiled. 

“That is the way he has been raving all day,” said he. 
“ Calling for ‘ Dora, Dora,’ all the time!” 

“ Has he?” she murmured, mechanically arranging the 
vials of medicine on the stand beside the bed. 

“ It was his wife’s name, as I gathered from his discon- 
nected talk,” added Trixham. “ God forgive that woman; 
she has much to answer for!” 

For a secopd Dora’s eyes met his, with an expression of 
agonized pleading that puzzled the major. 

“ How can we poor, frail mortals read each other’s hearts?” 
she cried out. “ ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ That is 
one of the mottoes of our sisterhood. Major Trixham.” 

He looked at her in surprise. 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


263 


“ And now if you will give me the doctor^s directions, Vic- 
tor,"^ said Mrs. Bracy, assuming a tone of gentle authority, 
“ I will make preparations for the night.^^ 

It was not until the wax candles had been extinguished in 
favor of a shaded night-lamp, and Victor was dozing on a 
lounge in the ante-room, that Sir Basil Branchley seemed to 
arouse from his uneasy sleep. 

“ Dora!’^ he cried out, trying to lift himself from the pil- 
low. “ Where is t)ora? Has she gone away from me again ?’^ 

Noiselessly the nurse glided forward into the light of the 
lamp, and laid her cool hand on his forehead. 

“ I am here,'"" said she. 

“ Bon^t leave me,^^ pleaded he. “ Don^t go away. For I 
love you so dearly, my Dora!^’ 

A tremor shook her frame; the slow tears gathered beneath 
her eyelashes and began to fall, one by one. 

“ No,'’^ said she. “ I will not leave you.'’^ 

“ Put your hand in mine,^^ said lie, abruptly. “ Let me 
hold yours — and then I shall be sure.’^ 

And all through the dreary vigils of the night she sat there, 
with her hand in his burning clasp, listening with a sinking 
heart to the wild phantasies of his disordered brain, hearing 
her own name repeated over and over again, but always in ac- 
cents of imploring tenderness. 

“ Bid he love me like this?^^ she asked herself, her face 
deathly pale in the lurid light. “ Oh, God! and I have dared 
to doubt his constancy? My true and loyal husband — my own 
love!^^ 

Br. Anneslie paid his visit early in the morning, long before 
Major Trixham had turned out of his bed. Mrs. Bracy stood 
at his side, her large eyes intently fixed upon his face. 

“ Boctor,’^ said she, “ is he better?'^ 

Br. Anneslie smiled grimly. 

“ Better,^’ he repeated. “ Nay, my child, it is early days 
to answer that question. Let us be thankful that he is not 
worse. 

“ Bo you think he will recover?'’" 

‘‘We doctors don’t think, Mrs. Bracy; we only trust and 
hope.” 

Bora turned away with a sickening sensation at her heart. 
If her husband should have been restored to her, only to be 
wrested from her once more! 

In the course of the morning there was an arrival — a bustle 
through the halls, and the sound of voices. Major Trixham 
came in presently. 


LOYE AT SARATOGA. 


2CA 

“ Mrs. Bracy,” said he, “ Sir Basil Branchley^s mother is 
here. She wishes to see her son at once, but I think it best to 
ask your advice whether it is wise to — 

^‘1 will go to her,^’ said Dora. 

Calling Victor to take her place in the sick-room, where Sir 
Basil was sleeping uneasily, Dora glided out of the room. 

Lady Branchley, in a traveling-dress of dark -blue serge, 
with her. veil hanging down her back, and the strings of her 
hat scarcely unloosed, was standing at the.- window in Major 
Trixham’s private parlor, her pale, anxious face turned toward 
the door, her hands nervously clasped. 

“Here is the nurse. Lady Branchley, said the major. 

“ She can better inform you as to your son’s present state.’’ 

“ Dora!” Lady Branchley started forward with a cry, 
partly of astonishment, partly delight. 

“ Yes, Dora!” said the girl, putting both her hands in those 
of the elder lady. “ Who should nurse Basil, if not Basil’s 
wife?” 

“ But how did you come here?” eagerly questioned Lady 
Branchley. “ Who told you he was here? And how long 
have you been in attendance upon him?” 

“ Doctor Anneslie sent for me,” answered Mrs. Bracy. “ I 
have enrolled myself in the Sisterhood of Nurses belonging to 
the St. Hi lari us Hospital. 1 came here as 1 would come to 
the summons of any sick or ailing creature, and 1 have been 
rewarded.” 

“Eewarded?” 

She lifted her radiant face to Lady Branchley’s. 

“He loves me. Lady Branchley,” said she, in a tone of . 
voice that was almost inaudible.. “He has loved me all along; 
through all the fover of delirium, the wild ravings of incoher- 
ent dreams, 1 can read that blessed truth!” 

She unfastened Lady Branchley’s traveling-cloak with gen- 
tle hands, removed her bonnet, and laid aside her wrappings 
on a sofa. 

“ Come!” said she, “ we will share our vigils together — his 
mother and his wife — and, with God’s help, we will bring 
him back to our love again.” 

For three long weeks Sir Basil Branchley lay ill at the Eoyal 
George Hotel — three weeks during which the light of poor 
Dora’s hopes had well-nigh flickered and gone out more than 
once. All of one dreadful night she spent upon her knees, 
wrestling with Heaven in prayer; many a day she watched 
and waited, scarcely daring to breathe, for the final moment 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 3G<J 

of dissolution to rend her heart asunder. But God was mer- 
ciful, and Sir Basil Branchley lived. 

It was a bleak December evening, with snow clicking softly 
against the window-panes, and a sad wind moaning down the 
chimney, when Sir Basil seemed to wake out of a long troubled 
sleep to Consciousness of all that surrounded him. He looked 
vaguely around at the candle-light shining on the gold- 
threaded Japanese draperies over his head, the ruby reflections 
of the fire on the polished dark wood of the furniture, the 
deep-red roses that were glowing in a slender-necked vase on 
the mantel. It was all so strange, so unreal! In an instant, 
however, his eye fell on a matronly figure in glistening black 
silk, with ivory-tinted point lace at its throat, and a widow's 
cap placed lightly on its glossy braids — a figure that converted 
the whole scene into home at once. 

“ Mother," he said, softly. 

She dropped the wooden needles with which she was weav- 
ing some brilliant combination of white and scarlet wool and 
hurried to his side, with tears in*her eyes. 

“ Oh, Basil, my son," cried she, “ thank God that you are 
speakiug in your own natural voice again!" 

He looked down at his attenuated wrists and claw-like fin- 
gers — he tried, but without avail, to lift his heavy head from 
his pillow. 

“ I have been very sick?" said he. 

“ You have, indeed, my son." 

“ And where am I now? This— this is not the manor 
house?" 

“You are at the Royal George Hotel, in Southampton. 
Major Trixham brought you here, and your old friend. Doc- 
tor Anneslie, has been attending you." 

“ Did they send for you, mother?" 

“ Major Trixham telegraphed to me, and I came at once." 

He smiled faintly, and pressed her hand with his emaciated 
fingers. 

“ That was like you, mother," said he. 

“ But, dear Basil, you must not talk much just now," said 
the mother, anxiously. “ You are so weak— and there is 
always the danger of a relapse." 

“ One more question, mother," pleaded the baronet. “ Are 
you alone here?" 

“ Who should be with me, Basil?" 

The questioning light died out of his eager eyesj he turned 
his head wearily to the pillow. 


266 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


“ No one,” said he. “ 1 suppose my brain is full of fever 
fancies yet. ” 

And with her eyes still full of tears. Lady Branchley 
watched him as he drifted o2 once more into the deep slumber 
which is better than Eastern drugs to streogthen the worn-out 
convalescent. 

When Dr. Anneslie made his usual visit that evening, she 
told him what had occurred. 

“ Let her go to him,’^ said the doctor, brusquely; “ I have 
known great sorrows to kill people, but great joys — never!'’^ 

But Theodora shuddered and shrunk back. Now that the 
moment for which she had so passionately yearned was close 
at hand, a haunting cloud of doubts and fears rose up to 
obscure its brightness. 

“Oh, let me go away,^^ she faltered, “ before he looks upon 
me with cold contempt. He has called my name lovingly — 
his eyes have rested on me with the old, tender light! I could 
never endure him to despise me now !” 

Lady Branchley took her hand gently and led her, pale and 
trembling, into the sick-room. 

The candles were lighted — the fire burned brightly, and 
Victor had just administered a strengthening draught to his 
master. Sir Basil looked up with a sudden troubled expres- 
sion on his face. 

“ There it is again, said he, as his mother advanced softly 
to his side. 

“ Do you mean — 

“ The footstep, he murmured, passing his hand across his 
forehead, as if with a troubled effort to remember. “ The 
same footstep that I heard during all that weary delirium! 
Oh, mother, let me float away into the world of shadows and 
dreams once more, for she was with me in my dreams — my 
lost love, my Dora!’^ 

These words died away into a low cry. Lady Branchley, 
with swimming eyes, beckoned to the slight figure, which was 
concealed behind the curtains, to advance. 

“Basil,"" whispered she, “ Dora is here~in the house— in 
this very room. Shall she come to you?"" 

- A. look of inexpressible love and longing came into Sir 
Basil"s face; he put out his pale, transparent hand as Dora 
hurried forward and fell on her knees beside him, her golden 
hair floating like a glory over the coverlet, her lips pressed 
against his palms. 

“ Mine,"" he whispered, softly, “ mine forever! 1 knew you 
would come, Dora."" 


LOVE AT SARATOGA. 


267 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

‘‘she loved much.^^ 

“You don^t say so!’^ said Reuben Hallowell, with his 
mouth wide open, and his pale-biue eyes dilated to the utmost 
size compatible with the pattern of their lids. 

“ Yes, I do,^^ said Miss Joanna. “ It seems exactly like a 
novel, don^t it? But it’s gospel truth.” 

Miss Joanna Beck had been invited to eat her Christmas 
turkey and mince pie at the Hallowell farm-house. Mrs. 
Hallowell entertained no objections to Miss Joanna. She was 
neither young enough nor beautiful enough to entrap her hus- 
band’s fickle affections. And besides, Mrs. Hallowell had her 
natural share of curiosity, and was on the qui vive to hear the 
wonderful story of pretty Dora’s life romance. 

“ Well, I never!” said Reuben, staring hard at the slice of 
turkey on his plate. “ I always did say as Dora wasn’t cut 
out for no ordinary fate. She was like a piece of painted 
porcelain, Dora was.” 

“ She wasn’t no ways different from nobody else,” tartly 
interposed Mrs. Hallowell. “ Do pass the cranberry sass, 
Reuben, and leave off making a fool of yourself!” 

“ She’s ‘ My Lady Bran chley ’ now,” said Joanna. “I’ll 
take another cup of tea, Mrs. Hallowell, if yo\x please. With 
a coach and four, and servants to do every hand’s turn for 
her, and 1 just wish you could see her black velvet dresses, and 
diamonds, and French hats and things. And Sir Basil, he 
fairly worships the ground she walks on. And little Walter 
has his tutor, and Nell has her French maid, and Lady 
Branchley— the dowager, ye know — ” 

“ What in creation is a dowager?” asked Reuben, staring. 

“ Sir Basil’s mother, of course,” returned Miss Joanna, 
with an air of mild patronage. 

“We calls’ ’em mothers-in-law in this part of the country,” 
said Reuben. 

“ You don’t understand the peerage,” said Miss Joanna, 
loftily. “ But she’s that fond of Dora she can’t take her 
eyes off her. ” 

“ She’s different from most mothers-in-law, then,” sniffed 
Mrs. Hallowell. 

“ And Mr. Julian and his lady are living at Sedge Court,” 
added Joanna. “ You never see no one so took aback as Mrs. 
Julian was by little Walter’s turning up, just as she’d made 


m 


LOVE AT SAKATOGA. 


up her mind as her boy was to be the heir — or p’r’aps I’d ought 
to call her Lady Augusta.” 

“ I don’t see the common sense of that/’ said Mrs. Hallo- 
well, “ nobody calls me Lady Almiry.” 

“ You ain’t English/’ said Joanna. 

“ Americans is as good as English, every day in the week,” 
said the fair republican. 

“ 1 dare say,” said Joanna. “ But that ain’t neither here 
nor there. She’s a grand lady, now, our Dora is.” 

“Humph!” said Mrs. Hallo well. “Some folks has all 
the luck.” 

“ There ain’t no luck too good for Dora,” said stanch Eeu- 
ben Hallowell. 

“ But I don’t see,” persisted Mrs. Eeuben, “ if Sir Basil set 
such a dreadful sight o’ store by Theodora, how he let her go 
wanderin’ about the world so long without a penny or a friend 
to keep herself with.” 

“ Didn’t he come over to this country lookin’ for her?” de- 
manded Joanna. “ Didh’t he write to her the minute he got 
to the manor house? And didn’t Lady Augusta dear up the 
letters so as they never reached her? Lady Augusta owned 
up herself to it, when she was that angry as she never stopped 
to think of common sense. ” 

“ Do tell!” said Eeuben. “ And there was Dora in her 
husband’s own house, and nobody so much as guessin’ wlio 
she was! 1 swan, it’s just like a novel!” 

“Dora Beck was always sly,” remarked Mrs. Hallowell, 
with quiet venom. > 

“ And what became of the old tin-mending chap as brought 
little Wally home from the boarding-school place?” questioned 
Eeuben. 

“ Old David, do you mean? Oh, Sir Basil has given him 
one of the porters’ lodges to keep, and he’s snugly provided 
for until the day of his death,” assumed Joanna. 

“ 1 should think, while they were about it,” remarked Mrs. 
Hallowell, “ they might as well have provided for you, too.” 

“ I don’t ask no one to provide for me,” retorted Joanna, 
with an asperity which showed that Mrs. Hallowell ’s poisoned 
arrow had sped home. “ Fve come back here, and I shall 
put out the old sign, ‘ Fine Washing, Fluting, and Italian 
Ironing Done Here,’ and if 1 can’t make a decent living. I’ll 
know the reason why!” 

But Miss Joanna had felt secretly chagrined that the grand 
gentry at Branchley Manor House had evinced no desire for 
her companionship or society. 


LOVK AT SAKATOGA. 


“ I ain’t good enough for ’em, I suppose,” said she, to her- 
self. ‘‘ I haven’t got yellow curls and big eyes and a soft 
coaxing voice, like Theodora! Well, beauty ain’t but skin 
deep, arter all, and we’ve all got skulls grinning under our 
flesh and blood. ” 

And with this scrap of time-worn philosophy. Miss Joanna 
comforted herself as best she could. 

“ Well,” said Reuben, carving away at the turkey, ‘‘one 
thing’s sartin sure — Dora hasn’t got no better fortune than 
she deserved. She was always the flower of all the Saratoga 
Road.” 

“ It’s a pity she didn’t appreciate you as highly as you did 
her,” said Almira, biting her thin lip. 

“ No, it ain’t, neither,” said Reuben, boldly. “ I’m only 
a great awkward farmer lout, and she’s a little delicate creetur 
intended for a lady and nothing else. And here’s to her 
health and happiness,” burying his face in a huge mug of 
cider, “ and may she live to be a grandmother yet!” 

For, in his way, honest Reuben was as stanch as any Sir 
Galahad of them all. 

It was quite true. Theodora was peacefully, serenely hap- 
py at last. And sitting in the ruby fire-light of that same 
Christmas evening at Branchley Manor, with Sir Basil at her 
side and the children playing on the hearth-rug at her feet, 
she seemed to see her past life as in a mirror. The wild gypsy 
girl of the Saratoga Road; the tropic-natured creature who 
had preyed on her own heart at Eaglescliff Hall; the desolate 
woman who had stood outside the gates at Branchley Manor 
House, like a Peri shut out from Paradise; the pale, self-con- 
tained Sister'of Charity, who had devoted heTself to God’s sick 
and suffering poor; the happy wife, entering once more into 
the rich heritage of her husband’s love; all these figures 
seemed to pass before her mental vision like the gliding shad- 
ows of a magic panorama. 

“ What have 1 done?” she asked herself, “that I should 
deserve such a happy lot as this?” 

What have we any of us done, that we should deserve the 
rich gifts of Heaven’s inero^^? It is a question which the 
wisest i)hilosopher can not answer. Sweet Dora, look into 
the Holy AVord and read its blessed utterance: 

“ Her sins are forgiven, for she loved much !” 


THE END. ' 



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V 







Nachfolgende Werke sind in der ,,Deutschen Library “ erschienen. 


1 Der Kaiser von Prof. G, Ebers 20 
a Die Somosierra von R. Wald- 


mtiller 10 

8 Das Geheimniss der al ten Mam- 
sell. Roman von E. Marlitt. 10 
4 Quisisana von Fr. Spielhagren 10 
6 Gartenlauben - Bliithen von E. 

Werner 20 

6 Die Hand der Nemesis von E. 

A. KQnig 20 

t Amtmaun’s Magd v. E. Marlitt 20 

8 Vineta von E. Werner 20 

9 Auf der Riimmingsbux’g von M, 

Widdern 10 

10 Das Haus Hillel von Max Ring 20 

11 Gluckauf! von E. Werner 10 

12 Goldelse von E. Marlitt 20 

13 Vater und Sohn von P. Lewald 10 

14 Die Wiii'ger von Paris von C. 

Vacano 20 

15 Der Diamantscbleifer von Ro- 

senthal-Bonin 10 

16 Ingo und Ingraban von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

17 Eine Frage von Georg Ebers. . 10 

18 Im Paradiese von Paul Heyse 20 

19 In beiden Hemisphfiren von 

Sutro 10 

20 Geiebt und gelitten von H. Wa- 

chenliusen 20 

21 Die Eichhofs von M. von Rei- 

chenbach 10 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

Erste Halfte 20 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

Zweite HSilfte 20 

33 Barfiissele von Berthold Auer- 
bach 10 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkdnige von 

■ G. Freytag 20 

25 Friihlingsboten von E. Werner 10 

26 Zelle No. 7 von Pierre Zacone 20 

27 Die junge Frau v. H. "Wachen- 

husen 20 

28 Buchenheim von Th. v. Varn- 

biiler 10 

29 Auf derBabn des Verbrecbens 

V. Ewald A. Kdnig 20 

30 Brigitta von Berth. Auerbach . . 10 

31 Im Schillingshof v. E. Marlitt 20 

32 Gesprengte Fesseln v. E. Wer- 

ner 10 

33 Der Heiduck, von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

34 Die Sturmhexe von Grafln M. 

Keyserling 10 

35 Das Kind Bajazzo’s von E. A. 

KOnig 20 


86 Die Biiider vom deutschen 

Hause von Gustav Freytag. . 20 

87 Der Wilddieb v. P. Gerstaeker 10 
38 Die Verlobte von Rob. Wald- 


miiller 20 

39 Der Doppelganger von L. 

Schilcking - 1 • 30 


40 Die weisse Frau von Greifen- 


stein von E. Pels 20 

H^ans und Grete von Fr. Spiel- 
^ hagen lO 

42 Mein Onkel Don Juan von H. 

Hopfen 20 

43 Markus Konig v. Gustav Frey- 

• tag 20 

44 Die schSnen Amerikanerinnen 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos v. A. Kdiiig.. 20 

46 Zur Ehre Gottes von Sacher 

und Ultimo v. F. Spielhagen 10 

47 Die Geschwister von Gustav 

Freytag. 20 

48 Bischof und Konig von Mariam 

Tenger und Der Piratenkd- 
nig von M. Jokai 10 

49 Reichsgrafin Gisela v. Marlitt 20 

50 BewegteZeiteuv.Leon Alexan- 

drowitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben von E. A. 

Konig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt v. Gu- 

stav Fre 5 '^tag 20 

53 Hildegard von Ernst v.Waldow 10 

54 Dame Orange von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johannisnacht von M. Schmidt 10 

56 Angela von Fr. Spielhagen... 20 

57 Falsche Wege von J. v. Brun- 

Barnow 10 

58 Versunkene Welten von Wilh. 


59 Die Wohnungssucher von A. 

von Winterfeld 10 

60 Fine Million von E. A. Kdnig 20 

61 Das Skelet von F. Spielhagen 

und Das Fi’dlenhaus von Gu- 
stav zu Putlitz 10 

62 Soli und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Erste Half te 20 

62 Soil und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Zweite Haifte 20 

63 Schloss Griinwald von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

64 Zwei Kreuzherren von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

66 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen V. Kath. Sutro-Schiicking 10 

66 Das Haideprinzesschen von E. 

Marlitt : 20 

67 Die Geyer-Wally von AVilh. von 

Hillern 10 

68 Idealisten von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft von A. v. 

AVinterfeld 20 

71 Moschko von Parma v. Karl E. 

Franzos 10 

72 Schuld und SUhne von Ewald 

A. Kdnig 20 

73 In Reih’ und Qlied v. F. Spiel- 

baaren. Erste Haifte 20 


() 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY . 


73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hagen. Zweite H?ilfte 20 

74 Geheimnisse einer kleinen 

Stadt von A. von Winterfeld 10 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Erste HSlfte.. 20 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Hfilfte 20 

76 Clara Vere von Friedrich Spiel- 


hagen 10 

77 Die Frau Biirgermeisterin von 

G. Ebers 20 

78 Aus eigener Kraft von Wilh. 

v. Hillern 20 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht von K. 

Franzos .... 20 

80 Priuzessin Schnee von Marie 

Widdern 10 

81 Die zweite Frau von E. Marlitt 20 

82 Benvenuto von Fanny Lewald 10 

83 Pessimisten von F. von Stengel 20 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin 


von F. von Witzlebeu-Wen- 


delstein 10 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert von B. 

Young 20 

86 Thiiringer ErzShlungen von E. 

Marlitt 10 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella von A. 

Dom 20 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Mann 

V. Hans Wachenhusen 10 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjiihrigen Krieg v. E. 

A. Konig 20 

90 Das Fraulein von St. Ama- 

ranthe von R. von Gottschall 10 
01 Der Fiirst von Montenegro v. 

A. Winterfeld 20 

92 Um ein Herz von E. Falk 10 

93 Uarda von Georg Ebers 20 


94 In der zwolften Stunde von 

Fried. Spielhagen und Ebbe 
und Fluth von M. Widdern... 10 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste Halfte. . 20 
95-J)ie von Hohenstein von Fr. 
Spielhagen. Zweite HSlfte.. 20 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch V. Lucian 


Herbert 10 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths von Marlitt 20 

98 Helene von H. Wachenhusen 

und Die Prinzessin von Por- 
tugal V. A. Meissner 10 

99 Aspasia von Robert Hammer- 

ling 20 

100 Ekkehard v. Victor v. Scheffel 20 

101 EinKampf umRom V. F.Dahn. 

Erste Haifte 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v.F.Dahn. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

102 Spinoza von Berth. Auerbach. 20 

103 Von der Erde zum Mond von 

J. Verne 10 

104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen 

von G. Samarow 20 

105 Reise um den Mond von Julius 

Verne 10 


Fiirst und Musiker von Max 


Ring 20 

Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliffe. Er- 

ster Band 20 

Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

Zweiter Band 20 

Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

DritterBand 20 

Reise nach dem Mittelphnkte 
der Erde von Julius Verne 10 
Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 
Kohn 10 

Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 
terfeld 20 

Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 

T. Marx 10 

Der Ulan von Joh. van Dewall 10 
Um hohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 
Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 

Halfte 20 

Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten V, B. Auerbach. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

Reise um die Erde von Julius 

Verne 10 

Casars Ende von S. J. R. 

(Schluss yon 104) 20 

Auf CaprlVon Carl Detlef 10 

Severa von E. Hartner 20 

Ein Arzt der Seele von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

Die Livergnas von Hermann 

Willfried 10 

Zwanzigtausend Meilen un- 
term Meer von J. Verne 20 

Mutter und Sohu von August 
Godin 10 

Das Haus des Fabrikanten v. 

Samarow 20 

Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 
Schucking 10 


Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 
V. G. Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 
Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 
V. G. Samarow. ZweiteHalfte 20 
Porkeles und Porkelessa von 


J Scherr 10 

Ein Friedensstorer von Victor 
Bliithgen und Der heiinliche 

Gast vonR. Byr..<, 20 

Schone Frauen v. R. Edmund 

Hahn 10 

Bakchen und Thj'rsostrager 

von A. Niemann 20 

Getrennt. Roman von E.Polko 10 
Alte Ketten. Roman von L. 

Schucking 20 

Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 

J[ensen 10 

Das Gold des Orion von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin 10 

Um den Halbmond von Sama- 
row. Erste Halfte 20 

Um den Halbmond von Sama- 
row. Zweite HSlfte 20 

Troubadour -Novellen von P. 
^yse 10 


106 

107 

107 

107 

108 

109 

110 

111 

112 

113. 

114 

114 

115 

116 

117 

118 

119 

120 

121 

122 

123 

124 

125 

125 

126 

127 

128 

129 

130 

131 

132 

133 

134 

134 

185 


DIE DEUTSCHE LTBHARY. 


a 


136 Der Schweden-Schatz von H. 

Wachenhusea 20 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 

Arts und Das Bild des Kaisers 
von Wilh. Hauff 10 

138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. v. 

Winterfeld 20 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube von 

Stefanie Keyser 10 

140 Nnma Roumestan v. Alphonse 

Daudet 20 


141 SpStsommer. Novelle von C. 

von Sydow und Engelid, No- 
velle V. Balduin l\1611hausen 10 

142 Bartolomaus von Brusehaver 

u. Musma Cussalin. Novellen 
von L. Ziemssien 10 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 

rnischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Erste HSlfte. .. . 20 
143 Ein gemeucheller Dichter. Ko- 
mischer Roman von A. von 


Winterfeld. Zweite HSlfte.. 20 

144 Ein Wort. Neuer Roman von 

G. Ebers 20 

145 Novellen von Paul Heyse 10 

146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 

ludan-Mtiller 20 

1 17 Ihr einziger Bruder von W. 

Heimburg, 10 

148 Ophelia. Roman von H. von 

Lankenau 20 

140 Nemesis v. Helene v. Hlilsen 10 
* 150 Felicitas. Histor. Roman von 

F. Dahn 10 

151 Die Claudier. Roman v. Ernst , 

Eckstein 20 

152 Eine Verlorene von Leopold 

Kompert 10 

153 Luginsland. Roman von Otto 

Roquette 20 

154 Im Banne der Musen von W. 

Heimburg 10 

155 Die Schwester v. L. Schticking 10 

156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 

stficker 20 

157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M. 

Miiller 10 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Erste Halfte 20 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Zweite HSlfte 20 

159 Debora. Roman von W. Muller 10 

160 Eine Mutter v. Friedrich Ger* 

stacker 20 

161 Friedhofsblume von W. von 

Hillern 10 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe von K. 

Frenzel 20 

163 Gebannt u. erlost v. E. Werner 20 

164 Uhlenhans. Roman von Juried. 

Spielhagen 20 

165 Klytia. Roman von G. Taylor. 20 

166 Mavo. Erzahlung v. P. Lindau 10 

167 Die' Herrin von Ibichstein von 

F. Henkel 20 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Erste • • 20 


168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Zweite HSlfte 21 

169 Serapis. Roma * v. G. Ebers . 20 

170 Ein Gottesurtheil. Roman von 

E. Werner 10 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer. Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 

V. Franzos 10 

174 Villa Schonow. Roman v. W. 

Raabe 10 

175 Das Vermachtniss V. Eckstein. 

Erste Halfte 20 

175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 

Lindau 10 

177 Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 10 

178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen von E. Marlitt 20 

179 Jetta. Von George Taylor. ... 20 

180 Die Stieftochter. Von J. Smith 20 
161 An der Heilquelle. Von Fried. 

Spielhagen 20 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

von Jokai 20 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 10 

184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

185 Ehre, Roman v O. Schubin... 20 

186 Violanta, Roman v. E. Eckstein 20 

187 Nemi, ErzS-hlung von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 10 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Erste Halfte 20 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Zweite Hftlfte 20 

189 Homo sum, Roman von Georg 

Ebers 20 

190 Eine Aegyptische KSnigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 
Haifte .'... 20 

190 Eine Aegyptische KSnigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Zweite 
Haifte 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Erste Half te 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Zw'eite Halfte 20 

192 DieNilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Erste Halfte 20 

192 DieNilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

193 DieAndere, von W. Heimburg 20 

194 Ein armes Madchen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

195 Der Roman der Stiftsdame, von 

Paul Heyse 20 

196 Kloster Wendhusen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains. von 

Sacher-Masoch. Erste Halfte 20 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch.ZweiteHaifte 20 

198 Frau Venus, von Karl Frenzel 20 


4 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBHARY, 


199 Eiue Viertelstunde Vater, von 

F. W. Hacklander 10 

200 Heimatklang, voii E. Werner.. 10 

201 Herzenskrisen, vou W. Heim- 

burg 20 

202 Die Schwestern, von G. Ebers.. 20 

Der Egoist, von E. Werner 10 

204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein 20 

205 Lumpen mvillers Liesclien, vou 

W. Heimburg 20 

206 Das einsame Haus, von Adolf 

Streckfus 20 


207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Frey tag. Erste Htilfte. . . 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, vou 

G. Freytag. Zweite HSlfte. . 20 

208 Das Eulenhaus, von E. Marlitt 20 

209 Des Herzens Golgatha, von H. 


Wachenhusen 20 

210 Aus dem Leben ineiner alten 

Freundin, von W. Heimbnrg 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 

Halfte 20 

211 Die Gred, Yon G. Ebers, Zweite 

Halfte 20 

212 Trudchens Heirath, von Wilh. 

Heimburg 20 

213 Asbein, von Ossip Schnbin 20 

214 Die Alpenfee, von E. Werner.. 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Erste 

Halfte 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

216 Zwei Seelen, von R. Lindau 20 

217 ManOver- u. Kriegsbilder, von 

Job. von Dewall 10 


218 Lore von Tollen, vou W. Heim- 

burg 

219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 

220 Der Referendar, von E. Eck- 

stein 

221 Das Geiger-Evchen.von A.Dom 

222 Die Gotterburg, von M. Jokai 

223 Der Kronprinz und die deutsche 

Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 

224 Nicht im Geleise, von Ida Boy- 

Ed 

225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 

226 Josua, eine Erzahlung aus bib- 

lischer Zeit, von G. Ebers 

227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 

228 Henrik Ibsen's Gesammelte 

Wei'Ke. Erster Band 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 
Werke. Zweiter Band 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 
Werke. Dritter Band 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Vierter Band 

229 In geistiger li re, von H. Kohler 

230 Flammenzeicheu, v. E. Werner 

231 Der Seelsorger, von V. Valentin 

232 Der Prasident,vonK.E.Franzos 

233 Erlachhof, Roman von Ossib 

Schubin 

234 Ein Mann, von H. Heiberg.... 

235 Nach zehn Jahren, von IM. Jokai 

236 Um die Ehre, vou Moritz von 

Reichenbach 

237 Eine Hof-Intrigue, von C. H. 

von Dedenroth 


20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


20 


20 


20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


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KO. 34, 

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• GEORGE MUNRO’S PURLICATIONS. 


3 


THE LIBRARY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS. 

Price 35 CentM Pacli. 


8 Madolin Rivers. 

B7 LA URA JEAN LIBBEY. i 

Price 25 Cents. 

The episodes in the life of a charming but very practical young lady 
who moves imperiously through life, swaying hearts by her many ac- 
complishriients, and meeting with many exciting adventures, are pict- 
uresquely described in this novel with a rare blending of .realism and 
fidelity to nature. 

9 Saints and Sinners. 

BY MARIE WALSH, author of Hazel Kirke:' 

Price 25 Cents. 

The story upon which this novel is based appeared in dramatic form 
on the stage of the Madison Square Theater in New York, and was one 
of the greatest successes that was ever performed in that refined temple 
of the drama. Miss Walsh has carefully preserved all the incidents, 
situations, and climaxes which delighted thousands who witnessed its 
performance on the stage. 

10 Leonie Locke; or, The Romance of a Beautiful New 

York Working-Girl. 

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY. 

Price 25 Cents. 

The daily life of a New York working-girl gifted with beauty and 
talents which fit her for a high sphere, with the trials, temptations, heart- 
burnings and delights which enter into her existence is beautifully 
portrayed in this delightful love story. It is a novel sure to fascinate all 
who read its pages. 


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THE LIBRARY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS. 

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11 Junie’s Love-Test. 

BY LAURA JEAN LID BEY. 

Price 25 Cents. 

All lovers of romantic literature who have read this pretty love 
story pronounce it to be one of the best that Miss Libbey has written. It 
is bright in every line, interesting in every incident, and entertaining 
from the beginning to the finish. There is nothing dull or common- 
place in the story, and all will find it W’ell worthy of perusal. Read it, 
and you will be pleased. 

12 Ida Ghaloner’s Heart; or, The Husband’s Trial. 

BY LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. 

Price 25 Cents. 

Mrs. Comfort in this entrancing story portrays wdth rare skill the 
workings of the human heart in its various emotions. Her scenes are all 
sketched from actual life, and the incidents are so thoroughly invested with 
realism that the reader becomes spell-bound under their magical influence. 

13 Uncle Ned’s White Child. 

BY MRS. MART E. BRYAN. 

PiiicE 25 Cents. 

A FASCINATING story of Southern life, in which arc blended with rare 
skill the various quaint, stirring, and entertaining f<'atures of home ex- 
istence in the beautiful Southland— told in the author’s most captivating 
vein, and sure to be appreciated by lovers of entertaining fiction. 

14 All for Love of a Fair Face; or, A Broken Betrothai. 

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY. 

Price 25 Cents. 

In this story the authoress has a strikingly original plot in which are 
arranged a series of thrilling incidents which move rapidly along in in- 
terest to a beautiful climax. 


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15 A Struggle for a Heart; or, Grystabel’s Fatal Love. 

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBET. 

Price 25 Cents. 

A BEAUTIFUL love story dparnatically told. Replete with charming 
pen pictures and striking situations from the opening chapter to the last. 


16 Little Rosebud’s Lovers; or, A Cruel Revenge. 

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY. 

Price 25 Cents. 

“ Little Rosebud’s Lovers ” is one of the most fascinatingly beau- 
tiful tales that the pen of Miss Libhey, the gifted American 

authoress, has given to the readf!^^|[tlfc. Every chapter is a mine of 
interest, every line a source of oljjfe'i^^A’he characters are all admirably 
drawn from real life, and in the'^l#! roles in which they move in the 
story are entertaining, pleasing, and instructive. 


17 Vendetta; or, Tbe Southern Heiress. 

BY LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. 

Price 25 Cents. 

“ Vendetta ” is one of the most dramatic stories of American life 
in the Southern States ever issued from the press. Lucy Randall Com- 
fort its authoress, has woven together in the most charming manner a 
series of romantic incidents and thrilling adventures that will chain the 
interest at once of the most hldsc reader. 


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18 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ Gonspiraoy. 

^7 3IR8. ALEX. McVEIGII MILLER. 

Price 25 Cents. 

This beautiful story is founded upon incidents instinctive with 
human interest. The characters are all boldly drawn, and throughout 
the entire story comport themselves in a manner to enchain the attention 
of the reader. Not a dull line in the book, nor a commonplace incident. 
The story moves steadily forward from the first chaplfi' U? the last to a 
powerfully dramatic climax. 

19 Married for Money. 

BY LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. 

Price 25 Cents. 

In this novel Mrs. Comforfeluis ielejted a theme which affords ample 
opportunity for brilliant treatment. T’f# heroine marries for money, and 
realizes when too late her fatal mi^ale. Her trials, her hopes, her sor- 
rows are all powerfully depicted in a manner full of interest. 

20 Muriel ; or, Because of His Love for Her. 

BY CHRISTINE CARLTON. 

Price 25 Cents. 

This beautiful novel has been pronounced by critics who have given 
it perusal to be one of the most entertaining stories ever put before the 
public. It depicts with rare fidelity to nature the various emotions of 
the human heart, blending them into a narrative of deep interest. This 
novel is sure to please all who enjoy good literature. 


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The Old Sleuth Library. 

A Series of the Most Thrilling Detective Stories 
Ever Published. 

ISSUED QUARTERLY. PRICE 10 CENTS EACH. 

1 Old Sleuth, the Detective. 

A DASHING romance, detailing in graphic style the hair-breadth 
escapes and thrilling adventures o£ a veteran agent of the law. 

2 The King of the Detectives. 

In this story the shrewdness and cunning of a master-mind are de- 
lineated in a fascinating manner. 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. 

In Two Parts— Price 10 Cents Each. 

The crowning triumph of the great detective’s active career is 
reached after undergoing many exciting perils and dangers. 

4 Under a Million Disguises. 

In Two Parts— Price 10 Cents Each. 

The many subterfuges by which a detective tracks his game to 
justice are all described in a graphic manner in this great story. 

5 Night Scenes in New York. 

An absorbing story of life after dark in the great metropolis. All 
the various features of metropolitan life— the places of amusement, 
high and low life among the night-hawks of Gotham, etc., are realistic- 
ally described in this delightful story. 


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S^lnsist on having Pears’ Soap. Substitutes are 
sometimes recommended by druggists and shop- 
keepers for the sole purpose of making more profit 
out of you. 



MUNRO'S PUBLICATION’S, 


The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
tion and Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing? the natural 
graces of form and expressign. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes 
and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub- 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
their weight without injury to he^ilth and without producing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes and valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage pre 
paid, on receipt of price, 25 cents,. by the publisher. Address 

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The New York Fashion Bazar Book of Etiquette. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. * 

This book is a guide to good manners and the ways of fashionable society; 
a complete hand-book of behavior: containing all the polite observances of 
modern life; the Etiquette of engagements and marriages; the manners and 
training of children; the arts of conversation and polite letter-writing; invi- 
tations to dinners, evening parties and entertainments of all descriptions; 
table manners, etiquette of visits and public places; how to serve breakfasts, 
luncheons, dinners and teas; how to dress, travel, shop, and behave at hotels 
and watering-places. This book contains all that a lady and gentleman re 
quires for correct behavior on all social occasions. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
price, 25 cents, postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

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THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR 

Model Letter-Writer and Lovers’ Oracle 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 

This book is a complete guide for both ladies and gentlemen in elegant 
and fashionable letter-writing: containing perfect examples of every form of 
correspondence, business letters, love letters, letters to relatives and friends, 
wedding and reception cards, invitations to entertainments, letters accepting 
and declining invitations, letters of introduction and recommendation, letters 
of condolence and duty, widows’ and widowers’ letters, love letters for all 
occasions, proposals of marriage, letters between betrothed lovers, letters of 
a young girl to her sweetheart, correspondence relating to household inati- 
.Tgement, letters accompanying gifts, etc. Every form of letter used in affairs 
of the heart will be found in this little hook. It contains simple and full di- 
rections for writing a good letter on all occasions. The latest forms used in 
the best society have been carefully followed. It is an excellent manual of 
reference for all forms of engraved cards and invitations. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage paid, 
on receipt of price, ^ cents, by the publisher. Address 

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(P. O. Box 8761.) 







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